


Quarantine

by savant (teii)



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teii/pseuds/savant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is approached by SHIELD-- to act as a Deadpool-deterrent for New York City. Not exactly a glamorous job or a shining jewel of community service in his resume, but it pays the bills pretty well and is moderately stress-free.</p><p>That is, until Deadpool actually shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Compatible

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place right after Suicide Kings. Basing Deadpool's look on the newest Marvel Now! reboot. If you don't know what I'm talking about, [take a look](http://teii.tumblr.com/post/35272068341/in-deadpool-we-trust), NSFW for body horror/gore. I really, really like it. *A* Hope this doesn't really come as a surprise, but general warnings about Wade being a Grade A+ dickwad also applies to this fic.

Well, that wasn't fun.

Peter leans heavily on the fingerprint-smudged glass door, using his body weight to push his way into the lobby of his apartment complex. He stumbles in, as the fluorescent lights flickering above his head causes his eyes to prickle, his pupils having a hell of time adjusting. Groaning, he rubs the bruise underneath his jaw, where Wrecker crowbarred him to an altitude with an admittedly nice view of the Hudson. His vision swims in front of him, his brain still feeling like it's submerged in a vat of gravy, not helped with Deadpool hounding Punisher, Daredevil and him for directions to the nearest Ikea, whining that he's already used up all the 3G on his phone for the month looking up Mexican restaurants on Yelp. ("Brooklyn? _Brooklyn?_ Why don't they just put one on the moon while they're at it?") Swinging home proved to be a bit of a challenge, but he manages to make it back in one piece.

Pulling himself up with the thin, metal banister that's barely attached to the wall, Peter trudges up the stairs, the threadbare carpet underneath his feet worn and depressed from all the tenants taking the stairs rather than risk the deathtrap that is the elevator. He rounds the last corner, before freezing.

There was someone waiting for him.

Peter stops at the middle of the staircase and hunches down out of instinct. The man at his door is in a crisp suit, hands shoved in his pockets, staring calmly around the dilapidated hallway as if he was simply waiting for his latte at Starbucks. Squinting hard, Peter watches the man pull out a hand to check his wristwatch. The man doesn't _look_ dangerous, but Peter rarely, if ever, gets guests, invited or not, to his apartment, and he doesn't particularly want to test out his theory, especially with half of his body smarting, pain receptors on fire still from the run-in with the Wrecking Crew only hours before. He takes a step back, only to land on a squeaky board. He winces, his hands tightening around his backpack straps.

"Mr. Parker?" 

Peter barely pokes his head up, but from his angle, he sees the man pull out both hands and raises them face-up. No weapons. Peter locks eyes with the man, who nods with a benign, polite yet tight smile. Peter shuffles forward cautiously, stepping into the light glancing off the one naked light-bulb in the room. The man nods again, and reaches into his suit, pulling out a SHIELD ID card which Peter scrutinizes, noting the bolded "P. COULSON" emblazoned on the card. Peter feels his stomach drop-- he's been trying to get a spot on the Avengers for ages, but he's not in any way prepared to entertain a SHIELD agent, having finished his last instant coffee packet two days ago.

"I'd like to speak with you, Mr. Parker," Agent Coulson says, pocketing the ID. Peter nods stiffly, as he fishes his keys out of his jeans pocket and steps in first. Peter waves a hand to invite the SHIELD agent in, awkwardly pointing into his sparsely furnished living room, the dingy couch and Formica table looking depressingly spartan. At least he swept the floors last night. Maybe he should've tagged along with Deadpool to Ikea. "Please, take a seat." He wills himself not to flinch, watching the agent sit down on the second-hand, well-worn couch, the cushions sagging down heavily, with minimal support. The agent remained unfazed.

"I'm Agent Coulson, of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement Logistics Division," the man starts off, before Peter even finishes dropping his keys into the dish next to the door, "we've been monitoring Deadpool for several months now, ever since the whole symbiotes-infused velociraptors in Manhattan incident." Peter couldn't help but frown a bit as he opens up a fold-up chair and eases into it, head automatically pounding from remembering the little space-time anomaly that pulled superheros in from all five boroughs just to clean up that particular Deadpool-generated fuckup.

"About three hours ago, you, along with the Punisher, Daredevil, and Deadpool took down one Lonnie Lincoln. We're actually quite impressed, Mr. Parker--" Peter gives a cautious smile at the compliment, and he sits up a litle straighter.

"--with how you handled Deadpool."

Peter frowns. "Um?" he manages out, the rest of his words dying in his throat before he has a chance to say them.

"We at SHIELD are interested in a bit of a partnership, Mr. Parker. One that concerns Deadpool." Peter's shoulders sag a bit. Yeah, it was a bit of a stretch that a SHIELD agent would come knocking on his door to offer him a spot on the Avengers, and yeah, his earlier performance with the Wrecking Crew couldn't be put anywhere above a 7.5, but to be house-called about Deadpool?

He grits his teeth. His jaw smarts even harder.

"Um, I don't think I'm up for partnering up with Deadpool right now." _Or ever,_ he thinks to himself.

Coulson shakes his head, "what I meant was a partnership between SHIELD and you, Mr. Parker. We've witnessed a considerable decrease in destruction and mayhem New York City goes through once you step in. Apart from an outright ban on Deadpool entering the City, which we both know would prove..." a small shrug, "rather ineffective and costly, we found that the closest thing we had to a buffer was Spider-man, and not exactly that on a crime-fighting level, but a..." Coulson taps his temple twice, "a sort of a mental link? A compatibility of sorts."

Peter kind of wants to throw up.

"But he's...crazy." Peter ends lamely. Is that what SHIELD thought of him too? Some sort of fast-talking, pop-culture spitting, amoral nutjob?

"We have no questions about your own mental capacities or moral viewpoints, Mr. Parker. However, you can keep up with his loquaciousness, and from what we've witness, he does hold a modicum of respect for you, which is more than what we can say for a good 99.8% of the other superheroes. You may not be cut from the same cloth, but you two seem to have the same tailor."

Peter sinks further and further into his seat. All these years saving New York, and his best asset is that he can throw back as many pop-culture references as a madman. Real ego-booster.

"All we want is to put up as many defenses as we can around the City, from every possible angle, and to put a sort of... quarantine on Deadpool. We'd like you to keep an eye out for him, and if need be, persuade him to pick the path to less casualties and property damage." Coulson leans forward, noting the grim downward curve Peter's mouth was making, and he presses his fingers onto the plastic table. "Of course, compensation is prepared, should you decide to join us."

Peter looks up.

"Negotiable too." Coulson adds quickly. Peter looks off to the side, hands clasped together on his knees, but Coulson pulls out a calculator and small pad of paper, uncapping a Montblanc, smiling quietly to himself.

\--

Two weeks later finds Peter perched on the ledge of an office building, scanning the streets below. He's a little out of his normal patrol route, as he's currently in the Upper West Side, but he doesn't have to wait long before his reason for coming into Manhattan pops up from behind him.

"Has some guy from SHIELD called Coulson come and talk to you?" Peter asks, not even turning around.

Daredevil tilts his head, thinking back. "I got the usual invite to join the Avengers, but they did it by phone. Why?"

Peter deflates. So they didn't ask Matt to join Operation: Deadpool-proof New York City. Which means he's doing it alone. And Coulson was serious about Spider-man's all-encompassing role on the project. Like he didn't have enough on his plate.

Also, it must be nice, getting invites into the best superhero club on the planet and then routinely turning them down like door-to-door salesmen.

An idea struck him, and he twists towards Matt, eyes narrowed. "You didn't suggest me to SHIELD, did you?"

"About what?"

Peter stares at him for another thirty seconds, before dropping it, and goes back to staring moodily down at the streets below.

"'M stuck on Deadpool-sitting duties now. SHIELD orders," Peter grouses.

Daredevil sighs behind him, and Peter doesn't need heightened hearing to detect the minutiae of sympathy in that exhalation. "How much are they paying you?"

Peter pauses. "Seven thousand a month." A cool 84K a year, pretty good for a grad student still going for his masters, might even allow him to eye some apartments outside of Queens, but he knew it was chump change when it meant potentially keeping Deadpool from wrecking havoc in New York. But admitting it out loud still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, the word 'compatible' still bouncing around his head, tattooed to his skull like a killer migraine. Jesus. _Compatible_ with Deadpool. It might as well be the most extremely roundabout way of saying "you're never, ever, ever going to join the Avengers."

"Ask for more," Matt suggests, "a lot more."

Peter's about to laugh, but a gun goes off in the distance, and Daredevil is already leaping off the building, towards the sound of the shot. Peter follows closely behind, burying his discontent for the moment.


	2. Birkeland and Kinko's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly Deadpool talking in this one as I'm easing into writing him. Should be much more backtalk and insult wars between the two in the upcoming chapters, thanks for being patient!

After another two blocks, Daredevil slows down from a sprint to a walk, a deep scowl evident on his face. Peter swings back around, having passed him, alighting on the edge of a skylight.

"What's wrong? Can't find the source?"

"No, it's..." Matt falls silent, before quickening his pace, "it's not urgent, but we'd better go investigate."

Peter nods, trailing behind him, albeit confused. But when they arrive, Peter immediately understands why.

Sprawled out like a fat king, Deadpool lies on top of an open dumpster, the torn garbage bags propping him up on his throne of trash. A blossom of blood flows over his chest, with a bullet exit point found just above the heart. With every breathy heave Deadpool takes, Peter can hear a wet, burbling, whistling sound, like both blood and air being sucked into the lung via the bullet wound and Peter's stomach lurches horribly at the realization.

"Heyyyy! Team Red Reunion. Awesome." Deadpool wheezes, raising his hands halfheartedly for a few seconds before dropping them with a dead thump.

"Team Red?"

"Yeah, 'cause all of our costumes are red? Just trust me on this one, Horny."

Silence. Predictably, Deadpool's the first one to break it.

"Ok, look, I swear, it really wasn't my fault this time. Like five minutes of showing CRAZY Inez--" Wade looks up, warily staring at a particular balcony before continuing, "her new apartment that was panty soaking hot because I'm just that great at interior designing and that Birkeland nightstand really is sex on wooden legs. So all the natural light and vaulted ceilings gets her all hot and bothered, and she starts ripping her clothes off-- don't give me that look, Spidey, if you want to blame someone for the incredibly implausible ending, go blame Glass and Benson."

"Who?" 

"Nevermind. So we're getting it on, and she's making these sounds that were like a cross between Paravotti and a beached whale-- if we finished, she could probably have the first half of an overture down, but then her _boyfriend_ comes in..."

"I'm leaving," Matt announces. Peter whips around, shaking his head desperately. Daredevil only gives him a half-ass Pat of Solidarity on the shoulder that doubled as an implicit command to _stay_ , which Peter would have found insulting if he wasn't utterly dreading the idea of being alone with Deadpool. As it is, Matt simply nods, before scaling up the fire escape and onto the rooftop.

"A real Liefield lookin' guy. Muscles in places the human body shouldn't even have muscles. Like even his teeth were toned. Heckuva guy. Doesn't even say hi before he pulls me outta her--"

Peter digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. Exhales. Starts counting to five hundred.

"--and _then_ shoots me in the back-- concealed firearms, I think I'm gonna have a talk with Albany about this, I mean come on, they're just giving out those permits like candy-- _THEN_ he tosses me out the window like I'm yesterday's garbage. Kinda hurts a guy's feeling. Not sure if I can recover from this one. I mean, couldn't he have just let me finish then bullet-punched my organs out?"

"You couldn't have tried to _not_ sleep with an attached woman?"

Deadpool lets out a frustrated groan. "It's not like she said anything beforehand either! Well, maybe she mentioned a guy a few weeks back, but--point is, I just got de-facto kicked out of the friends-with-benefits-zone, ok? I think my sex life deserves at least a moment of silence here. Or maybe even a hug." Deadpool makes a move to get up, pushing himself up with his elbows, to which Peter automatically recoils, but he's saved by Deadpool pausing, finally realizing something. "Wait, where did Matty go?"

Peter sighs. Okay. He can deal with this. Technically Deadpool hasn't done anything to endanger anyone's life, which is much better than he expected. And for once, Deadpool wasn't the one blasting holes through people. All it is now is simply removing him from New York before he does anything else.

_Simple._

Peter crosses his arms, the way he's seen Captain American done countless of times in front of villains and Tony Stark alike, and straightens out his spine, assuming authority, "So you have other friends to tell your riveting story of love and loss to?"

Deadpool waves a hand in dismissal, sticking out his tongue, "Fffft, Inez probably already texted all of Agency X with pictures of my d--"

"Anyone else?" Peter hurriedly interjects.

"Weas is in Las Vegas or Atlantic City or Macau or something. Wasn't listening. Says he has a foolproof plan for counting cards without getting caught. Cable's too busy Jesus-ing it up in his new series. And Bob. Uh." Deadpool actually looks thoughtful for once, his mask scrunching up around his eyebrows as he tries to remember. "I don't remember where I put him..."

"Where you put him," Peter parrots slowly. He doesn't even know why he's surprised that Deadpool talks about his friends the same way other people talk about remote controls or car keys.

Deadpool shrugs, "I mean, one minute you're both scarfing down kalbi burritos, and the next you realize that the food truck is on fire, so you turn to ask him to hold your Snapple while you deal with it, but he's gone." Deadpool slaps a hand over his heart, the wet blood on his suit making a sick, damp 'smak' on impact, making Peter wince hard. "Abandoning me in my time of need, Spidey! Who can I turn to now?"

With a sigh, Deadpool digs into one of his pouches around his hips, and fumbles out a phone, and taps out a string of words while mumbling under his breath. A few minute later, he gets up, wiping off a glob of gray-brown sludge off his shoulder as he hops off the dumpster, his chest wound already healed.

"So all we gotta do is print a few hundred of these puppies at a Kinko's, put 'em up, and maybe in a few weeks--"

"Give me that," Peter demands while snagging the phone out of Deadpool's hands, pointedly ignoring the 'we'.

  
** LOST!!! **

This is Bob. 

Last seen: next to the Seoul Food truck. (Though why they don't make country fried bulgogi or collard green kimchi is beyond me.)

Height: Whatever.

Annoying: Very.

Afraid of: Everything, but especially bright lights, dog whistles, Whistler BC, whistling tea kettles, whistling in general, loud noises, raccoons, sprinklers, cats, Ryan Reynolds' face.

REWARD: $2 gift certificate to McDonalds.

Call 1-800-DEAD-POO.

"Are you serious?" Peter implores, shaking the phone, sorely wanting to use it to hit Deadpool in the face, "None of this information is useful. And is Bob a dog or something?"

"It's plenty useful!" Deadpool argues, jabbing a bloodied finger into Peter's forehead, to which Peter quickly smacks the hand away. "Say, if someone were to see a grown man run screaming out of a Best Buy that has _The Proposal_ playing on their flatscreens, they can immediately tell that it's Bob."

"You don't even have a picture of him!" Peter snaps.

"Yes I do!" Deadpool whines.

Peter holds up the phone. "This is a picture of the Grand Canyon."

Deadpool swipes the phone back, "this is ridiculous, I'm just going to call him."

And Peter wills himself not to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a Seoul Food truck in NYC, though they really don't serve Cajun-style Korean food, which is absolutely heart-breaking and baffling to me. Why bother with such a great pun name then?


	3. The King and I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the movies _Harold and Maude_ and _Fatal Attraction_ in this chapter, though the H+M one I feel is more significant. It's a gem of a black comedy flick, so I'd heartily recommend it to Deadpool fans.

It took awhile, but things were finally looking up for Peter Petruski. Whistling as he unlocked the door to his flat, he readjusts the bags in his hands to let himself in. A quiet 'mew' greets him once inside, and a small calico cat weaves in between his legs. He smiles down at her and with a backwards kick, slams the door with a loud bang. His cat jolts and skitters away, and Petruski winces a bit out of gulit, but trots toward the kitchen and unloads his spoils of grocery shopping on the granite countertop anyways. Jars of peanut butter, boxes of raisins, and frozen pizza come tumbling out and he gets to work stuffing the food into his empty refrigerator, glad to see it filling up.

He didn't really want to blow up that food truck, though admittedly the food was average at best. No one really was going to miss it. However, someone out there really didn't like it and was willing to pay him quite a great deal of money anonymously to get rid of 'that false advertising eyesore‘. He even thought to splurge on a hostage, figuring it would be a good investment for the future.

For the time being, it was like having the best roommate ever. Extremely low maintenance, mostly hangs out in the laundry room, doesn't make a lot of noise and only comes out to go to the bathroom before rushing back to his nest of towels. And he didn't even have to try and bond with the prisoner to induce Stockholm Syndrome, which is relief because he really didn't know how to break the ice.

A phone thrums across the counter top, the screen flashing urgently the name MR. WILSON on the front of the ancient NOKIA 3570. Petruski huffs. He never gets calls, how come the prisoner's phone is ringing off the hook? He ignores it, letting it go to voicemail as he shuts the fridge door for the last time, hummus and matzo crackers in hand. Flopping down on his new leather couch, he flips open the tv, pleased to find that the Green Lantern movie has just started.

"Sweet," he hums, cracking open the hummus container lid and settles down to stare at Ryan Reynolds wave jewelry at aliens.

\--

" _Hi! This is Bob. I'm currently not available-- probably entered an alternative universe where everyone is trying to kill me or the Hydra base is under attack by Captain America or someone else who is likely trying to kill me, or maybe I'm just taking a quick nap! Anyway, leave a message and I'll back to you. Have a nice day and HAIL HYD--_ "

"Dammit, Bob!" Deadpool snaps, pulling the phone away from his ear.

Peter shrugs his shoulder, refraining from smacking the back of his head on the brick wall behind him. "What if he's home or something? Like where normal people usually are?"

"If he was at home, my facebook timeline would be filled with pictures of his kids acting cute. It's disgusting." To double check, Deadpool pulls up his facebook, swiping down with his pointer fingernail clicking sharply across the screen.

"Yep, no Bob-spawns." Deadpool announces, turning the phone in his hands, "He's out there--somewhere. I don't know where he could be though, since he never gets invited to parties and hates going to the gym."

"Guess grocery shopping and bowling is out of the question?"

"Not if you're going to Costco," Deadpool says seriously, the first time Peter's ever heard the mercenary sound so somber. "With the mattresses in the warehouse, free samples, and clothing selection, if you're careful, you could live there for a week without the staff noticing. But Bob is the opposite of careful, so..."

"Not gonna ask."

"Wasn't gonna tell you, anyways," Deadpool flippantly bites back, "He most likely got kidnapped or something. Though why anyone would think he's good kidnapping material or think that people would be willing to pay ransom for him is mind-blowing." He grins, pocketing the phone, "Good news, Spidey, we got ourselves a ridiculously stupid bad guy on our hands!"

Peter clenches his jaw, feeling a vein in his skull throbbing uncomfortably. "Can you stop saying the word ’we'? I think I might start breaking out in hives if you keep using it."

"You'll live, sweetheart." Deadpool coos, before striding back and forth.

"Now, I don't want to be _that guy_ but my Pulp run had me as a puppet for the US government, so I didn't have the chance to play out my destined role of hard-boiled, ex-detective who's given up on the world. You got the 20s, lucky bastard. You have a spare trench coat lying around? Or even that cool gas mask is ok too."

Peter stifles a strangled, hacking cough. "Wow, haha, ok-- No. _No._ We are not pulping. And you're not the detective, you're the crooked cop who runs a prostitution ring and is always badly lit so that only the lower half of your face is visible."

"You're just bitter because you're more like the love interest that triple crosses everyone, but I get it-- you just want to see me in a police outfit. With the short shorts right? That's cool, you don't have to explain-- I'd indulge you, but the last time I tried that, I almost got arrested for impersonating an officer."

A beat.

"What's wrong with you?"

Deadpool hunches over, shrugging exaggeratedly, "Lots of things, but the latest ones are a broken heart, shattered ego, and a punctured lung, but you should've known that already, jerk."

"But look," Peter starts, wondering if it's even worth it trying to reason with Deadpool, "if this really is a kidnapping situation, best thing to do is to alert the cops, let them take care of it."

"Too late for that, they'll just toss this cute little mishap down into the cold case basement as soon as it's filed. I'm telling you, we need to hone our best Burt Lancaster voices and--"

Peter crosses his arms. Glares.

Deadpool copies him. "Fine. I'll just do this alone."

Peter freezes in his spot, as the merc turns and walks out of the alley. Technically, this would be a great time to leave and with Deadpool miffed, it might mean two solid months before he saw the man again. He sighs, the idea of being able to go home and sit in the dark upvoting pictures of cats on reddit sounding fantastic, before remembering that he's got a paycheck at stake, an overdue water bill, and he hasn't showered in two days. Taking a deep breath, he swings out of the alley, trailing Deadpool.

"You really don't know who might know where Bob is?" he ventures cautiously, keeping well out of katana-range.

"I thought you didn't want to go pulping," Deadpool sniffs.

"I don't, I want to keep this as professional as possible instead," Peter explains, lying through his teeth.

"This is Bob we're talking about. He cried during _Eat, Pray, Love_ and _Sex and the City Eye-eye_."

"What about that Agency? You both worked there, right?"

"Practically for free," Deadpool pouts, "and I didn't get any of the benefits or dental care I was promised and Inez--"

"Deadpool."

"Sure you don't have a trenchcoat? I really need it, if only as a disguise."

"I'll buy you an ice cream or something." Peter haggles, quickly running out of options.

" _Froyo_."

"...fine."

\--

Peter didn't know what to expect from a mercenary agency. He'd thought there would be more smoke and alcohol and poker games in a Long Island warehouse. The West Village-based office had it's own lobby, all brightly lit, with soothing jazz and up-to-date editions of _National Geographic_ and _Time_ arranged neatly on the coffee table, and the doorman unquestionably opened the door, even for Deadpool and the semi-automatics strapped to his thighs.

Peter looks over at Deadpool, who seems _unnerved_ , ignoring the man and tapping his foot on their way up by elevator, furiously mumbling, as if arguing with himself, though Peter can hear a few "no, no, no," or growls of frustration. Though by the time they've reached the Agency's floor, Deadpool all but flounces up to the registration desk, leaning across the desk on tip-toes, which at his height looked ridiculous as he's more than halfway over the desk and knocking heads with the receptionist. "Saaaaaaaaaaaaandi..."

The girl behind the counter barely looks up, even with her bangs brushing against Deadpool's mask. "Couldn't keep it in your pants, huh?"

"No I couldn't. For the record, she couldn't either, ok. Besides, it wasn’t like I was going to go all _Fatal Attraction_ on her. I like bunnies too much.”

Sandi tilts her head up, pointing a gel pen at Deadpool with a smirk on her face, "You _Fatal Attraction-ing_ would be so uninspired, not to mention tacky. Inez would expect more," she teases.

"But have I ever killed out of passion?" Deadpool questions, now rolling along the desk.

"Out of stupidity, definitely."

Deadpool scoots forward to let his head tilt back far enough to stare at Sandi, extending a hand to stroke her cheek, but she smoothly rolls away in her swivel chair, off to the backroom to make a copy. "Is this because we never hit it off?" Deadpool calls after her, fully sitting up on the desk, swinging his legs. "Because I totally would've gone for you, but--"

"Agent X will see you now," Sandi deadpans, to which Deadpool responds by scrambling off the desk and shoots down the corridor. "We coulda been beautiful togetherrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

It's only after Deadpool is out of sight and Sandi comes back that she notices Peter, and she hurries forward apologetically, "Oh! Welcome to Agency X--"

Peter shakes his head, pointing down the hall, "I'm with him. Unfortunately."

Sandi tsks in pity, a half-smile stretching out her lips, "Yeah, I heard. Sorry about that."

Peter's eyes widen, "wait, what?"

Sandi opens a desk drawer, shuffles around and pulls out an sheet of thick paper with SHIELD letterhead. "It says that in case someone sees Deadpool, they're to find you to deal with him..."

Peter makes a move to read the statement himself, but a shrill whistle from Deadpool stops him in his tracks.

"Spidey!"

Peter sighs, and makes a few complicated hand gestures, indicating that he still wanted to see it. Sandi nods once, standing up once more.

"I'll make you a copy." she whispers, and Peter nods his thanks, darting towards the office of one Alex Hayden.

\--

At first, Peter doesn't even realize that there's someone even in the room.

The entire surface of the dark mahogany desk was crammed with an incredible array of once frozen or pre-made mix of snacks, looking like a college fraternity's idea of a potluck dinner. But a bucket of fried chicken disappears from the top of the pile and Peter sees a man's face from behind the mountain of food.

"Wilson! Just the jackass I didn't want to see!"

Deadpool swings an arm around Peter, to which the shorter man immediately jabs him hard with an elbow, trying to maintain space between them. "Hah! Joke's on you, asshole, I've upgraded to hanging out with A-listers--"

"We're not hanging out." Peter grunts, now focusing on prying Deadpool's vulture claw-like fingers off of his shoulder, "I'm here because I thought I could dump Deadpool on you guys."

Alex waves a chubby, grease-stained paw in dismissal, "Thanks, but you can keep your boytoy."

Said boytoy meanders in front of the desk, "How's the diet soda and chicken nuggets diet going?"

"For your information," Agent X leans across on both of his elbows, his stubby fingers quickly making short work of the crinkly plastic HoHo wrapper, then popping a cake into his mouth in one bite, "that's Coke Zero in there, and I spent all of yesterday eating kale chips and applesauce so I think I deserve some real food now."

"Don't go overboard now."

"What do you want, homewrecker?" Alex snaps.

Deadpool throws his hands up, "Oh, you can not be serious--"

"This doesn't just affect you, you louse, Mike works here with us--"

"Lemme get this straight: you terminate my contract and take in someone--"

"Who doesn't demand to be paid in Pinkberry and Benjamins stuffed in potato sacks! Mike's a good guy, and you? You're you. There's practically no competition here. And look, they were cute together ok? They were gonna move in together and share bank accounts--"

"Just after two weeks?" Peter cuts in, confused.

Agent X ignores him. "And now the whole office atmosphere is gonna go down the shitter, just because you didn't realize you'd have to come crawling back for--"

Deadpool holds up his hands, the paradigm of innocence, "Look, I'm not here for a job, I lost Bob a while back."

Alex leans back into his plush office chair, slotting his fingers together, the leather on the chair squeaking slightly as its centre of gravity shifts. "Figures. How long?"

"Two weeks, give or take? Any idea where he might be?"

Alex pops a mini-donut into his mouth, the powdered sugar floating down to his chins, "No reports from the precincts about kidnappings for at least a month. Actually, why didn't you file a report?"

Peter turns to glare at Deadpool.

"Hey, I had a lot on my mind then--"

"I'd bet," Alex snorts.

"Could have it anything to do with the food truck explosion?" Peter ventures.

Alex flicks through a pile of papers, before finding a thin yellow folder and tossing it over to Peter's outstretched hand like a frisbee. "This is all the police could compile together. They're confident that it's not a terrorist plot, but some sort of disgruntled super-villain with too much time on their hands. Residues of the explosion is a new chemical of some sorts, though that's about all there is. A new guy? Someone moving in with a hatred for street food?"

"Your extensive Rouge Gallery would come in handy right about now, Spidey," Deadpool drawls.

"Shut up," Peter and Agent X snaps simultaneously, neither even sparing Deadpool a glance.

Deadpool hums, unperturbed, picking up a bagel bite, eating exactly half, and offering the rest to Peter, pressing it against his masked mouth, effectively blocking Peter's view.

"Say aaah."

Peter narrows his eyes, shoving Deadpool's hand away only to wrestle with the man's other hand trying to pull up his mask. "Dammit Deadpool," he grunts, dropping the papers as he's now being pushed backwards, their hands locked together in what was probably the weirdest dance Peter's ever been in, even trumping over his high school prom night.

"Shall we dance? On a bright cloud of music shall we fly?" Deadpool trills, spinning them around while Peter stumbles, trying to dislodge the hard grip Deadpool has on his wrists.

"How old are you? You can't be making that kind of reference." Peter groans.

"Who's the one who understood it? Though there was the remake with Jodi Foster and Chow Yun Fat." Deadpool grins, suddenly letting go of one hand to relocate onto the small of Peter's back, dipping him down.

Peter squirms, feeling his skin crawl at the hand, but manages to right himself to standing up again, which Deadpool relents, "You can't tell me that that version was any good. You could've gone with a more contemporary dance flick--"

"Oh yeah, like what? You aren't exactly Dirty Dancing caliber here." Deadpool takes the opportunity to push Peter's head onto the sharp plane of his clavicle, with Peter's jaw smacking straight onto the bone. Peter issues a hard kick in the shins in retaliation.

"But this is just devolving into the worst indie romcom ever." They're spinning around in mindless circles, the police report crunching and crinkling under their feet.

"I think it's more Harold and Maude-y than anything. Should I switch to that Cat Stevens song?"

Peter stops struggling for a moment to think it over. "Is that even considered a romcom?"

"I'd think so, 'cause Maude _got some_ \--"

Agent X snaps his fingers, though the short distance between his curled index finger to his palm only made the snapping sound more like a 'thup'. Nevertheless, both masked men turned their heads to look at the obese boss.

"If you guys are done staring into each other’s eyes, could I please ask you two to waltz your asses out of here?"


	4. Heisenberg and Twisted Ostriches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the first season of Breaking Bad. Mentions of incestuous dubcon by way of alluding to Visitor Q, a film that I would firmly place in the NSFL genre.
> 
> Refs made to [Baman Piderman](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7-TQdN40Dk) and [Warlizard’s Revenge Story](http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/13pnhs/reddit_what_is_the_most_fucked_up_way_you_got/c7624x4).

It takes Peter a clean 45 seconds to apologize to Agent X, scramble to pick up the police report, stuff it on a corner of the desk next to a tray of Portuguese egg tarts, shuffle briskly back into the lobby agency, pick up a nondescript envelope Sandi prepared for him on the front desk, and make his way into the elevator with Deadpool, spending the rest of the time on the way down deliberately not looking at the mercenary, fingering the envelope in his hand.

When they step out onto the streets, it’s already dark, street lights turned on and emitting a cold glow onto the streets.

“Are you sure you want frozen yogurt?” Peter warily asks, his breath coming out in puffs.

“You promised.” Deadpool sing-songs.

"Fine, fine.” Peter mumbles sullenly. “There's a 16 handles nearby, I don't think they're closed yet so--"

"That sounds like a..."

Peter preemptively cuts Deadpool off, anticipating his answer. "Gay bar, I know--"

"I was _going_ to say secondhand-bike store found in a Wes Anderson movie," Deadpool hums innocently, "and their schtick is that they only sell four tandem bikes at a time, and the owner is this old lady who match-makes the customers coming into her store. except that all her customers are robots.”

“So it’s like-- _Love Actually_ meets a Bjork music video meets _Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day_.”

Deadpool snaps his fingers. “ _Exactly_.”

“That’s rather quaint, coming from you,” Peter says, shaking his head, sadly remorsing over the fact that he can clearly see the movie trailer in his head, subtitles and all. 

“Is it the whole bike thing? Has that insufferable, Boulder CO feel to it, right? Maybe she rents out jetskis instead.”

Peter’s about to explain that most people have a very limited tolerance for gauzy, neurotic, self-introspective films, but his explanation dies when he finds Deadpool’s hand curling around his, gripping it tightly.

Peter frowns, but doesn’t look at Deadpool as he nonchalantly tries to tug his hand away. Deadpool doesn’t even react, merely rubs reassuring, small circles on the back of Peter’s hand with his thumb.

"What are you doing." Peter hisses, trying not to panic. It’s dark, sometime past nine at least, the streets void of anyone, but the last thing Spider-man needed was some gossip rag getting a shot of him strolling down the street hand in hand with Deadpool of all people.

Deadpool ignores him, practically dragging Peter down half a block before he suddenly darts into an alleyway, pulling Peter in with him before unceremoniously letting go of his hand and pushing him up against a wall with a shoulder.

“What--” Peter gasps out, his back protesting at being slammed into the gritty brick wall.

"Just had a weirdy feeling,” Deadpool stage-whispers, craning his neck out to scan the streets.

"You better not be talking about ghosts,” Peter hisses.

"Not that, Piderman. It’s not even Happy Winter Friends yet,” Deadpool warbles. “Y’know...that ‘Tuco meets Walter White for the first time’ weirdy feeling."

Figures. A tv reference. But talking about _Breaking Bad_ has a much more sinister feel to it than _Fawlty Towers_ , so Peter racks his brain, clicking back to season 1, before--

"Where?!" Peter demands, pushing Deadpool’s hand off of him with a hard shove.

"Chill, I just figured it out myself." Deadpool grinds out, waving a hand impatiently to get Peter to quiet down, “Some weirdo in a trenchcoat just walked in that store not too long ago. Can’t tell if he’s a flasher or actually someone dangerous just yet. Either way, people are gonna get an eyeful. If we hurry we can--”

BOOM!

Peter shields his eyes, watching a store window just a few feet away blow out, glass shards raining down on some unlucky pedestrians caught in the crossfire. Screams pierces the air while a man pushes his way out of a cloud of smoke, stumbling hard as he hits the sidewalk, before taking off and running across the street, ignoring the cars swerving and screeching around him. Plumes of black smoke rises into the air as the fire inside the store jumps higher, licking at the awning and the cheery, block-lettered ‘16 handles’ store sign above the doorway, fueled by the blustery wind rushing in through the broken window.

“We might need to find another froyo shop,” Deadpool faintly suggests, the thick smell of burnt sugar pungent and cloying.

Peter rushes forward, eying possible entry points into the store before he feels a pair of hands around his waist and before he can protest, is flung into traffic headfirst. He shoots out a string of web and hauls himself onto a high-rise across the street, just in time to avoid kissing the grill of an 18-wheeler.

“What the hell was that?!” Peter yells, twisting his head back to watch as Deadpool waves at him, before executing a clean dive-roll into the yogurt shop, swallowed up by the smoke. In the distance, he can hear another explosion going off.

Bitch!

Peter sucks in a breath, and turns away from the burning building, trying to convince himself that leaving Deadpool in charge of the rescuing was a good idea. He jumps off the wall and lets out a line of web, catapulting himself up another fifteen stories. With a bird’s eye view in a three block radius, he quickly spots the suspect, fleeing a half of block worth of burning cars. After a couple of swings, Peter drops down in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Right, then. I’ll admit their froyo is seriously overpriced, but--” Peter stops, frowning at the gun pointed at his face. He gets plenty of guns waved at his face, but he squints, not quite sure what to make of this.

“Get lost!” the man yells, waving a bright orange and yellow super soaker at him.

“Are you serious?” Peter balks, staring at the plastic watergun. The man merely glares, albeit the effect is dampened by the fact that he’s trembling harder than a drenched kitten in a cardboard box.

“I said, GET LOST!”

Peter ducks out the way just in time, noting the neon green, gelatinous projectile wobbling past his ear. He hears the glob of goo splatter onto the pavement behind him, feels his back getting curiously warm, and only then does his Spidey-sense kick in to tell him that this was probably Not Good.

He starts to scramble out of the way, but it’s too late as the sidewalk behind him explodes, concrete flying everywhere and Peter gets flung forward as a large chunk of pavement slams into his back, and he crashes into a nearby parked car, the wind knocked out of him. He tries to force some air back into his lungs, his ribcage straining hard under the exertion, but the lack of oxygen leaves him slipping less than gracefully off the dented Camry, alarm wailing as he slides down heavily against the car door, a thin trail of blood marking his descent.

Peter sucks in a breath, counting to five and willing himself to get back up before he hears another ‘splat’, the same heat radiating from a nearby laundromat and covers his face as another explosion goes off, this time taking down an empty laundromat, debris crashing down at his feet. Through the dust cloud, he can make out a faint, blurry view of the man fleeing the scene. Grabbing the rear-view mirror of the car, he hauls himself up, issuing out a string of web and swings up onto a lamp-post. In mid-air, punching through the dust cloud, Peter sees the man take careful aim. Peter twists to avoid it smacking him dead in the chest, but still lands with a bit of green gloo stuck onto his arm.

Shitshitshitshitshitshit _SHIT_!

Peter’s panting, staring down at the green glob trailing all the way down his arm, heating up quickly. Tears of panic wells up in his eyes and he tries to scrape it off, only to find it seeping in and spreading all over his costume. His breath hitches, struggling to take off his costume.

He hears a shrill whistle and “Yo, Spidey!” is the only warning Peter gets before he gets blasted with a stream of water straight from a fire-hydrant. Peter gasps, the water punching into his side and he skids across the asphalt, choking and coughing. Faintly, he can feel the burn on his arm subsiding, overtaken by the overwhelming coldness of the water. Eventually, the flow subsides and Peter finds Deadpool crouching over him, lightly patting his cheeks. "Dude, dude, dude, wake up, we gotta get outta here. Hey, you even listenin-oh ok, hold this for me then."

Deadpool thrusts a severed arm into Peter’s hands, and Peter grimaces, nose prickling at the smell of wet blood, burnt tires, and smoke.

"What about the--" 

"Shh, I did the whole hero thing, don’t worry. It was like that _I am Number Four_ movie--starred a handsome stud but not worth mentioning ever again.” Deadpool consoles, hoisting Peter over his shoulder in a firemans’ shoulder.

Peter sighs, but clutches the arm to his chest, letting Deadpool scoop him out of the small crater, head lolling and twisting at the movement.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Deadpool murmurs, patting Peter’s back, and he falls asleep that way-- the blaring symphony of several car alarms, the roar of a building on fire, and the jangle of metal on metal lulling him to unconsciousness.

\--

He finally wakes up.

Ugly wallpaper. Sheets on top of him. Leather couch. Peter sighs, relieved that he’s somewhere with walls and not in an alleyway on top of a garbage pile like he feared, and clutches Deadpool’s arm even tighter to his chest.

Wait. Arm?

It takes a few seconds before he’s finally coherent enough to question why something was digging painfully into his clavicle that he rolls onto his back, blearily staring at Deadpool’s bloodied, rotting arm in his hands, gloved fingers dangerously close to his lips. Peter sits up and lets go of it in a hurry, letting it slip off the couch and onto the floor with a sickening, dead thump while he scuttles away, getting tangled in the sheets.

“You were perfectly fine with snuggling up with it, just now,” Deadpool comments behind him, and Peter whirls around, finding a fully unmasked Deadpool, still missing an arm, munching away on an empanada, lit up by the faint blue glow of a computer screen. Bits of skin have burnt off of Deadpool’s chin, forehead, and most of the left side of his face, and Peter can see blackened muscle fibers and even a smidge of stark white bone of his jaw as Deadpool keeps chewing, the shriveled muscles feebly flexing and straining to accommodate for the strenuous activity. Peter’s stomach twists uncomfortably, and he looks away, careful not to stare into Deadpool’s eyes, filmed over with a thick layer of jaundice.

“Do I even want to know where we are?” Peter asks, sitting up, cradling his left arm that was slightly smarting and takes in the take-out menus and chip bags littering the dirt-crusted carpet floor, the swords and bullet holes embedded into the walls, and a massive flat screen TV hanging across from him.

“Not the nicest or cleanest or safest place, sure, but it’s home.” Deadpool shrugs. ““Kept busy while you were out. Made some calls. Duolingo’d. Look, I can say--” he squints at the screen. “ _La donna mangia una mela?_ Anyways, you mind handing that back? Couldn’t get you to let go of it when you were conked out. Finally found my Bea Arthur impersonator solo vid I’ve been tracking down for ages, and somehow, doing it with the left hand just wasn’t the same--”

Peter’s stomach revolts all over again, and he covers his mouth, until he realizes that his mouth is exposed, and he panics. “Fuck!” His hand flutters onto his exposed cheeks and lips, before drawing his fingers up and finding his mask sitting on top of his cheekbones, still covering his eyes.

“It’s cool, Spidey-- I get the whole Superhero Confidentiality thing.” Deadpool says, spraying out bits of ground beef, “ I only pulled it up because you were coughing all over the place like you were about to kick it. Couldn’t have that happening to Marvel’s darling, right? Actually, wait no...”

Peter ignores him, quickly rolling down his mask until it completely covers him down to the neck. Shakily getting up, he drags himself to the bathroom, stepping clear of the disembodied arm, and clutching at his stomach.

“I mean, 616 _and_ Ultimates? I mean, they’ll be crazy not to bring the 616 you back in a year or so, but still....”

“So you don’t know what I look like,” Peter ventures, a little alarmed at the idea that his identity might have been compromised by Deadpool.

The man shrugs. “I’ve got _theories_ , but I stopped myself from opening Pandora’s box, just in case that rumor that you’re actually a mannequin brought to life or an _Interstella 5555_ -ish alien really is true. Don’t wanna ruin the dream.”

Peter ignores Deadpool, and stumbles his way into the dingy bathroom, barely lit and locks the door behind him before tugging off his mask completely and spitting into the off-white porcelain sink, black-grey phlegm splattering the bottom. He stares in disgust at the viscosity and color of what he’s hacking out, and quickly turns on the faucet, waiting impatiently as a mere dribble of water flows out, taking at least ten seconds before there’s enough water to rinse his mouth out with. He finishes up with scrubbing away the dried dribble of blood running out of his nose, and wiggling his left arm out of his costume to check on the burn. He stares at it, before stuffing his arm back into the sleeve, letting out a sigh and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He blinks slowly, and leans forward until his forehead hits the dirty mirror with a dull thunk. Gripping the sides of the sink, Peter closes his eyes. The entire apartment smells like blood, gunpowder, and grease, and even though the bathroom tile chills the bottom of his feet, he’s not in any hurry to step back out.

This really wasn’t what he signed up for. Peter scrubs at his eyes with a knuckle, wondering if it’s too early to call it quits. He wasn’t even doing that great of a job anyways. Gets roughed up by a guy with a super soaker, then saved by Deadpool, all within an hour. The only sort of meager joy he’s getting out of the whole thing is the fact that his apartment isn’t as terrible as Deadpool’s, before remembering that he’s comparing himself with an amoral mercenary.

“You doing alright in there, honey? Do you need me to run to the store for a box of Tampax?”

Peter’s shoulders tenses involuntarily, and he wrenches the door open, stomping out of the bathroom to find Deadpool unsettlingly quiet, mask back on, right arm reattached, and staring off into the middle distance.

“What are you _even_ doing?”

“Thinkin’,” Deadpool says with a shrug, “Like, the whole parallel dimensions deal. How many of the other mes are just as bad at mental math and telling time on an analog clock as I am? And if they are actually good at those things, what are they? An accountant? Carnie? Porn star? Dead?”

Locking himself back in the bathroom was starting to look more and more appealing. Still.

“How long have I been out?”

“Ten, eleven hours? Not too bad, I was banking on twenty, honestly.”

Peter glances at the dusty, closed blinds across the room, the mid-day sun filtering in through the otherwise dark apartment and his stomach whines. He didn’t even have lunch or dinner yesterday. He looks down at his feet, at a half-empty twizzlers bag and tries to tell himself that he’s not that desperate yet.

“So there’s a new weapon out around town.” Deadpool begins, “Glue blaster, by the look of it. Stuff disintegrates at high temperatures, which is why there’s no real trace of it after--”

“Wait, wait,” Peter interrupts, holding up a hand. “You meant-- goo blaster, right?”

“Glue blaster. Guh-loo.” Deadpool corrects sharply, with as much vitriol as a head Catholic school matron with a brand new ruler.

“But I saw it, and it was green and jelly-like and--”

“Smelled like burnt rubber?”

Peter holds up his hands in surrender, “You’re the expert, Tintin.”

Deadpool snorts. “Bottom line is, we’re really not working with extraterrestrials or future artillery or anything cooked up in a secret high-tech lab in Antarctica- this stuff is homebrew, mom’s basement meth lab side-project deal only-- and someone is trying to capitalize on it.”

Peter frowns, “these weren’t plays on usual taking-over-the-world chain of events, but--”

“Dangerously, dirt-cheap explosives. Who’d get in on it? Mining corporations, insurgent groups, Mythbusters, suburbia kids with nothing to do-- anyone who’s in need of something blowing up or just really angry-- most likely both. And that’s just off the top of my head. All this? Is just one big infomercial. Media blows it up for a few days, random pedestrians get interviewed about how much they like tacos and irish mint froyo, and CNN inadvertently Billy Mays for our little pyrotechnic shithead.”

Peter tilts his head back, crossing his arms, “I can’t help but feel like someone’s behind this though. A lot of someones. Like it was a for-hire schtick. They picked some idiot off the street and handed him a prototype. We might be dealing with R+D, who hasn’t quite yet met with the HR and marketing divisions.”

Deadpool wiggles his fingers. “Oooh, fancy white collar talk, what’s next? That they’re planning to vertically integrate their synergy output and rework their matrices?” he coos, “Though honestly, they might not be as dumb as you think, seeing how they took you out-- just saying! But seriously, not everyone can get the drop on you, sweetheart, it’s almost like this guy _knows you_.”

“I still can’t believe you put all of that together,” Peter squints.

Deadpool shrugs, cushioning the back of his head with his hands. “Don’t. I won’t be insulted. It’s mostly ‘Reeny’s work anyway, I can’t take credit for like-- 95% of what I just said. Always good to have a reporter in your corner. I wanted to swing by her place, but yeah, she told me she didn’t want me anywhere near her flat after what happened with Inez. She probably thought I wanted to make a move on her, but pssh-- her loss. And I was about to tell her that being hung up on Nate is a huge waste of time-- I’d know first hand-- he’s really better off with Neena anyways, but then I had to play nice because I had to call in a solid to find out who our mystery inventor is.”

“Who is it?”

Deadpool waves a hand. “Got some guys. They’re on it. Irene too, but she’s not too happy. I’ll just make her a mixtape after the whole thing is over. Lots of river babbling, birds tweeting shit. I think she needs it.”

“Someone willing to help you,” Peter shrugs, “doesn’t fall out of the sky every day.”

Deadpool laughs, “I know right? Most people won’t do it, even with getting paid. Fuck it, I’ll throw in a boxset. Maybe Homeland. Or the Wire.”

Peter subconciously pats his hip, feeling the outline of the envelope Sandi gave him last night, but says nothing.

Deadpool twirls a dagger in his hands, nicking himself with it every so often. “It’s the calm before the shitstorm right now. Our madman is waiting for the perfect place for a ramp-up. But with 16 Handles being the pinnacle of the culinary world, I wouldn’t know where he’d want to strike next.”

Peter groans, sinking into the couch, sitting sideways so that his cheek is pushed against the leather.

“Don’t tell me we’re just going to wait for him to show up and wreck havoc.”

“Noooo, no no no no. That's a bad idea, like worse than the time I thought watching _Visitor Q_ with Nate and Hope would be a good family bonding movie. How am I supposed to know that the daughter forces the dad to have sex with her in the first scene, right off the bat?”

Peter throws his hands up. “Like anyone else in the world? IMDB? What’s next, a Jodie Foster movie marathon?” he snaps.

“But I didn’t want to spoil it for myself,” Deadpool sniffs, but he frowns, staring at the catatonic Spider-man on his couch, and he gets up.

“Look, I’ll get some food-- real food, so sit tight. You can monitor the local news if you’re paranoid that our guy’s going to try something else this quickly.” Deadpool slaps a hand onto Peter’s shoulder, his thumb pushing down hard on his spine as he rubs circles around a jut in the bone.

"Awww cheer up, Spidey. You know better than anyone that you don't look half as cute pouting."

Peter feels Deadpool’s lips pressed onto the back of his head, and he scowls, pushing Deadpool away hard enough to make him take a few steps back, cheeks traitorously burning. Deadpool merely grins, before bounding out the door.

Peter picks up the remote control and tries his best to find a news channel, but eventually stops on one that was showing _Ghostbusters_. He puts the control down, curling up on the couch, until he lays back and hears a crunch somewhere next to his thigh. A half-eaten chip bag lies tucked into the seat, and Peter drags himself into a sitting position and with a quick glance at the door and corners of the ceiling, opens it up and tips the somewhat stale crisps into his mouth, crunching contently.

The doorbell sounds, along with a series of insistent knocks. Peter rolls his eyes, sliding deeper into the couch, not wanting to get the door. Most likely Deadpool forgot his keys. But he makes himself walk over and turns the lock, only to find a pair of towering luchadors in the hallway.

“Hey, bro, we came as soon as you calle--” one of them starts, before snapping his jaw shut. Peter looks between the two of them, confusion and concern etched their faces.

“Uh, dude...” the one in the green mask starts, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Were you gonna tell us of your roleplaying, costume fetish? Actually, not like we want to know, but--”

“You could have just told us to wait a coupla hours ‘til you’re done, we wouldn’t have asked no questions.”

“You do know this sorta makes you a hypocrite? All that ‘Spidey’s overrated boohoo doesn’t give me the time of day he sucks’ stuff. Just sayin’, man.”

Peter gets a hard poke in his stomach. “And what happened to your muscle definition? Do you even lift anymore, bro?”

“Though the outfit is pretty authentic lookin’, musta cost a fortune,” the wrestler in red admits, and holds up a phone to snap a picture.

Peter shakes his head, backing away from the door, “No, I think you’ve made a mista--”

“You guys, that’s not me.”

“Bro!” the two wrestlers shout in unison, wheeling around and swarming up to Deadpool who’s holding a tower of pizza boxes. They playfully punch his arms and shake his shoulders. “How you been, how you been?”

“What did you think you guys were coming by to? Comic-con?”

One of the wrestlers jerks a thumb back at Peter. “Then who’s this guy? You grabbed him from that Eighteen Handles bar or somethin'?”

“No, Gus-- Rigo, stop, you’re gonna make me drop these---that’s him, he’s the real deal--”

Gus takes a few broad strides up to Peter, sizing him up. “What? Aw, Wilson, fucken hell, you’re teaming up with _the_ Spider-man? Hey bro!” Gus loops a thick arm around Peter’s shoulder, as he tosses his Galaxy S III towards his brother, “instagram this moment for me, will ya? I’m thinkin’ Valencia might do the trick, but I’m kinda addicted to Walden these days...”

“Deadpool,” Peter grunts, finding himself suddenly cheek to cheek with a grown man making a particularly obnoxious duck face, “who are these guys?”

“The Zapata brothers. The green one is Gus, red Rigo. Color coordinated for your convenience.”

“They’re not here to do the Twisted Ostrich on us, right?” Peter quips, smiling at the scowl Deadpool shoots his way.

Rigo pokes Deadpool in the ribs, “Hey, when’re you gettin’ back on the road wit us, man? We still got lotsa tequila to go around.”

“And middle management to _take care of_.”

Deadpool shrugs off Rigo’s hand, dropping the pizza boxes onto Peter, who gratefully accepts, admittedly not expecting Deadpool to come through. And he nods at Deadpool in thanks, even with Gus stealing a slice before he troops back to the couch. “Maybe next time, guys. Some mook basement nerd took off with something of mine, and I need some help getting it back.”

Rigo cracks his knuckles; his brother munches ominously.“Whatcha need done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! This chapter went through a lot of edits. I think only three paragraphs from the first draft made it through to this final version. 
> 
> I like Spideypool and all, but I'm having such a hard time actually getting them together. I feel like a zookeeper trying to get two pandas to mate, but realizing that it's much more fun to see them fight instead. Hahahaha...I will try harder though!


	5. Daybreak Alley

Well, that wasn’t fun.

He staggers into his apartment, mostly in one piece, besides his coat edge a bit singed from the fire. The super soaker clatters onto the floor and the man wearily kicks it further into the apartment.

He turns and flings himself onto the couch in the living room. He tries in vain to pull his boots off without using his hands, but gives up and pulls his feet onto the couch, mud streaking into the leather as he tries to find a comfortable position to nap for awhile. Or forever.

The phone in his pocket buzzes, and with considerable difficulty, he pulls it out of his pants pocket, blearily staring at the message sent.

One last job.

One last night.

He lets out a sigh, and mustering the last of his strength, pushes himself out of his couch and drags himself back out the front door. He was going to need more supplies.

\--

"...are you _sure_ he's not a dog?"

Deadpool falls back into the couch next to Peter, petulantly crossing his arms. "Jesus Christ-- would I really ask you to come up here if I was missing a dog?"

The brothers simultaneously turned to look at each other. "There was that one time you made us fly to Lisbon to deliver your copy of _Fletch_."

"I mean, we're bros 'n all--"

"But we were in a middle of a job, and our client wasn't too happy."

"That was before Netflix."

"No, that was two months ago." Rigo corrects.

Peter snorts. Deadpool still has his arms crossed, unapologetic. "Maybe I needed a bit of Chevy Chase in my life every now and then again. Maybe _we all do_."

"You didn't watch it until we got back from the States," Gus reminded him.

"I found _Vacation_ playing in the hotel room's HBO before you guys landed. My CC quota was filled for the time being."

Peter looks between the Zapatas, but they didn't seem like they were going to put up a fight, as they seemed more nervous than anything.

“So, uh, no offense, but--”

“If he really ain't a pooch, you’ve got yourself a massively stupid bro, bro.”

“Actually, that sounds pretty offensive.” Peter chimes in, opening up his third box of pizza while still gnawing away at the remnants of the second. Rigo relents with a shrug, but turns back to Deadpool, still concerned.

“Don’t mean to be cynical, but it's been two weeks and by the looks of it, if no one's gotten a ransom note yet, most likely he’s been cut up and dumped into the sewer and clogging up a few drains. You know how it goes.”

Deadpool widens his eyes, staring up at Rigo in shock. “Wait, you actually handle the bodies post mortem? Shit, I just walk out and get myself some chili fries after I’m done.”

"Point being--"

"Bob's out there," Deadpool insists, "the Apocalypse will have come and gone, we'll all be dead, and Bob will still be out there, complaining that his socks are wet. That kid'll outlast us all. Still, he's not very good in small, dark spaces, so we'll need to find him before his language skills start degenerating and he only speaks in series of growls."

"Any leads, then?"

"That's what I wanted asked you guys."

"Uhhhh..." Gus trailed eloquently.

"Any similarities?"

"Both included explosions, both were done at peak hours, both sold food, and--" Deadpool tapers off, face scrunched up in concentration, before something evidently came over him and he scrambles off the couch, elbowing Peter in the process.

"Spidey, after you're done, throw those boxes in the trash or out the window or something and skedaddle on home like a good boy." Deadpool instructs with a bright grin, leaning down to smack Peter's cheek lightly. "And scrub your face, you've got grease all over it, it'll suck putting the mask over it when you're done."

Peter didn't share his excitement.

“Wow. You spend all of yesterday insisting we team-up and now you’re letting me loose?” A stray chunk of insight slams into the side of the head, and Peter stabs an accusatory finger up into Deadpool’s personal space. “You’re going to do this illegally, aren't you?"

Deadpool slaps his hands against his cheeks, letting out a mocking gasp, “Holy shit, how did you figure that one out?" Peter keeps on glaring, and Deadpool relents, "Ok look: It's real cute and more than slightly bewildering that you want to tag along all of a sudden, but seriously-- all it is right now is a waiting game. Which means, yes, it might not be all that lawful, but you know-- that's fucking great for you! Whenever ‘Reeny or me and the boys find out where the little screwfuck lives, you can hop right back in all the fun. Nothing for you to do til then, so in the meantime, you should probably go back home. Wash up, jerk off, wash up again, whatever it is you do in your little Spider-y life.”

“I'm coming with." Peter declares, ignoring Deadpool's entire spiel. The Zapatas look on in the background, though Rigo has his phone out, scrolling through his Twitter feed with a yawn.

"Hey, normally I'm good with advocating the whole, 'be yourself, it gets better', shill, but if you walk in looking like that, we're all gonna find ourselves in lockers. That are actually coffins. Because they'll bury us alive because you're an idiot and a nerd. You following? You following where I'm going with this--"

Peter brings up his arms. "What's wrong with my costume? You blatantly plagiarized it."

Deadpool drills a finger into Peter's sternum. " _You're_ what’s wrong, dingbat. I'm the one who’s supposed to be meandering around a shady, dark neighborhood, the moment they see you skipping down the block, you’re gonna find yourself with a bullet dildo rammed up your petite little ass. And it ain't gonna feel all too good.”

“Well, we’re going to have to think of something, aren’t we?”

“Excuse me, _we_?” Deadpool simpers.

Peter only smiles.

\--

Half an hour later, and Peter finds himself in the back of a stereotypical nondescript white van, sitting on the floor with Gus Zapata.

"You know, you could've been home free by now."

"With the knowledge that Deadpool might be destroying half of Manhattan?"

"He ain't that psychotic." Gus defends. Peter shoots him an incredulous stare.

"Really, he ain't," Gus shrugs. "He ain't like that guy in _No Country for Old Men_."

"No," Peter agrees, "he's worse."

"Ouch," Gus hisses, leaning away from Peter. "Man, you might wanna get out while you still can. Not trying to say nothing, but uh, why're you coming with if you clearly hate it?"

Peter's lips thin out. Explaining that he was doing it for a paycheck would probably be understandable, though most likely wouldn't be acceptable. It wasn't even that he entirely _hated_ Deadpool per say, it lied more in the fact that for all his hemming and hawing, the mercenary wasn't likely to give up information about himself. All you could really ever do was try to keep up with the inane references and connect the dots. And Peter still had reservations on the merits of doing so.

"I just hope he knows what he's getting us into." Peter replies. He knows it's a bit of a detour around the question, but Gus doesn't seemed too deterred, only shrugging.

"Nah, we'll be fine. Most likely. Probably. Hopefully."

"That's reassuring," Peter says flatly.

"Y'gotta take what you can get."

\--

"So."

"So."

Rigo slides his gaze towards the driver's seat, where Deadpool is gripping the steering wheel with an iron grip, making sharp, hard turns that has Rigo slamming into the door or the center console. He can only imagine how sitting in the back of the van would be like.

"You wanna explain how you're teaming up with New York's golden boy this time?"

"Couldn't even if I tried. We've teamed up before, and 9 times out of 10, he's a major cuntdrip about the whole thing, but it's like-- _weird_ this time. Could chalk it up to a difference in weltanschauungs, but-- it's just a feeling. Like he ain't telling me something. Normally, I wouldn't put up with it, but y'know."

"I know what?"

Deadpool stays silent, and Rigo doesn't pry, suddenly afraid to ask further. Instead, he turns his gaze out the window, his eyes narrowing at a street sign they've passed by.

"Wait, why are we pulling up on Laundry Ave?"

Deadpool snorts, "Dude, c'mon, why would anyone even drive by this street?"

Rigo shifts in his seat. "We're not going to go see--"

"Of course we're going to see Sweet Tooth, I'm definitely not shopping for PVC pipes and jelly beans in bulk."

Rigo swallows, drumming his fingers on the edge of the window. "You do know he killed a man by holding his head in a tub of frosting until he asphyxiated, right?"

Deadpool shrugs, glancing into the sideview mirror as he backs into an empty spot along the sidewalk in two smooth turns of the steering wheel. "Innovative, but unlikely. You can't believe everything you hear."

"I didn't hear, I _smelled_. You didn't go to the funeral, man. The entire place stank of cupcakes. Fuckin' shame. Morticians pumped a gallon of perfume into the parlor, and it still smelled like little Timmy's fifth birthday party. With a drunk Aunt Eloise babysittin'."

"Reginald--" Deadpool intones carefully, pulling up the hand brake.

"That ain't my name--"

"We've gone through a lot. You, Gus, an' me."

"Sure."

"You dead yet?"

"Not in the mood for an existentialism debate."

"I'll pretend you said no. The takeaway message here is you gotta trust ol' Deadpool, and you get to keep shuffling on this wretched mortal coil." Deadpool chirps, and pops out of the van, turning towards the back of the van.

\--

"How about reddit name?"

"I don't have one," Peter lies, though he has been spending the last five minutes covertly looking over Gus' shoulder as he follows yet another pun thread.

The backdoor handle swings down and Deadpool pulls open the doors, slapping the floor with his hands.

"Gus, update your Grindr profile later, we're here."

"I don't even have a Grindr account--" Gus argues, but Deadpool smacks his shin in an effort to make the luchador hurry up.

"Where are we?" Peter asks.

"Candyland." Deadpool holds out a hand to help him off the van. Peter stares at it in suspicion, but places his hand into Deadpool's.

Only to be yanked forward into Deadpool's fist.

Peter clocks out, swaying a bit until he tilts forward and into Deadpool's arms. Deadpool rearranges him in his arms and hops back up into the van. He peels Peter's arms off of him and leans him up against the side van, wincing slightly as Peter's head makes a hard bang on contact. Deadpool extricates himself slowly, and watches in dismay as all his hard work unravels in an instant, with gravity working against him as Peter slumps forward in what looked to be a painful angle, crumpled up and out cold.

"Shit," Deadpool curses softly, and he scoots a bit closer, pushing Peter's head back up to at least let it loll onto his left shoulder.

"You gonna read him a bedtime story while you're at it?"

Deadpool opens up one of his pouches and pushes the content of it into Peter's hand before pulling back and jumping out of the van, closing the doors behind him. Peter sleeps on, dead to the world.

\--

"We're here to see Sweet Tooth."

The guard crosses his arms, bringing his hands together in front of him as he widens his stance. "You got an appointment?"

Deadpool waves a hand, "Nah, he knows me. We go waaaaaaaay back. Like, middle school back. We were in the debate team together."

"I doubt that."

Deadpool bites his lip, before trying again, "I've got reaaaally important business to discuss."

"You can discuss it with me."

"Oh, ok, so see there's a guy--"

"Not interested anymore," the guard interrupts, and turns a 90 degrees away from Deadpool and the Zapatas, ignoring them completely.

" _Do you remember? The 21st niiight of September? Love was changin' the minds of pretenders..."_

"Rex here," the guard clips, holding a phone up to his ear while still shooting the three a warning glare, silently demanding them to leave.

"Yessir."

A pause. The guard's face pales.

"Uh, you sure, boss?"

The guard seemed to lapse into a fit of consternation, squinting hard at the mercenaries in front of him.

"Will do, sir."

Rex tucks the phone back into his pocket, and pushes the side door open, staring them down with stark invidiousness. "He'll see you, now. Fourth floor, first door to your left," he all but snarls out.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Deadpool drawls, and shoots into the building with a shit-eating grin affixed to his face.

The Zapatas strode in behind Deadpool, blinking to compensate for the dim lighting in the fire escape staircase. Rigo looks over at Gus.

"Bro code," he gravely intones.

"Bro code," Gus echoes in turn, and they follow Deadpool, dreading every step up to what would certainly be an overly sweetened death.

\--

"Gus, you got that spare 9 millimeter?"

"Plus the grenade," Gus affirms, patting his side. Deadpool spins around and starts walking backward, trying to appeal to the brothers, "C'mon guys, let's not go in guns ablazing, this Sweet Tooth seriously can not be as bad as you think."

Mindful of the security cameras in every corner of the hallway, the Zapatas tuck their artillery back into their various holsters after checking them.

"Just a precaution, don't wanna go in there all wide-eyed and bambi-legged."

Deadpool makes a small noise of disagreement, but goes ahead and wrenches the door open without even knocking. They enter verdical middle management office, complete with a fake plant on the desk, filing cabinets ringing the room, a scuffed up water cooler in the back corner, and a uncomfortable yet ornate leather chair behind a wobbly looking desk.

"Hello, gentlemen. Welcome to Grand Catering Supplies Incorporated. First time here?"

A young man, looking to be hardly over 19, sets down a thick inventory binder and stands up, picking up three brochures and thrusting them towards the mercenaries. 

If you'll just take a look at this, you'll have a good overview of our currently stocked products."

Deadpool takes one, handing the rest to the Zapatas and skims it, but not so covertly looks up to stare at the boy, who's picking at his charcoal gray cashmere cardigan and carding a hand through his burnt coppery hair, trying to seem nonchalant. Deadpool folds the brochure back up and tosses it onto the desk.

"Quit it, kid, everyone knows this is a front for restaurant racketeering."

The boy goes quiet, before locking eyes with Deadpool. He grins, and a dimple dips attractively into his left cheek. Wade finds himself grinning back.

"The name's Riley. Riley Grand. It's just me in the office, Dad told me to come back from Duke for Thanksgiving break, then went off into the Adirondacks with Marie before I even landed in Newark."

"Stepmom?" Deadpool ventures.

Riley shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck, "Sort of. She used to be my step-sister. They're planning a May wedding."

"Yarrrrrp."

Deadpool steps back, purposefully stomping down on Gus' foot.

"I didn't believe I caught your name, Mr.--?"

Deadpool saunters forward. "Wilson, but please--" he leans against a filing cabinet, "it's Pool. Dead Pool."

"Mr. Pool," Riley hums, playing along, "What can I do for you and your associates this afternoon?"

"Some of the properties in your Dad's protection quarters have been targeted for the last few weeks. We're looking for the same guy you are."

"Angry at the loss of such great establishments?"

"Isn't everyone? But this guy nabbed a friend of mine and holding him up in god-knows-where. Thought you might have a bit more dug up on this asshole than me and the soggy bottom boys here."

"Hey man, not cool," Gus whines.

Riley laughs, "So I'm assuming you look like George Clooney underneath that mask, to go with that mouth?"

"Wanna find out?"

"Maybe later," Riley waves off. "So that's it? All you need is information?"

"What else are you offe--" A hard jab into the shoulder persuades Deadpool to drop the innuendo. "--uh. Yeah. Just that, and we'll be out of your hair. If we get rid of this guy, we'll call it mutually beneficial and walk out of this without having to draw up a contract or whatnot."

"Should I ask how you're going to go about this?"

"I wouldn't if I were you."

Riley tilts his head in consideration. "As long as he's out of the way in a timely, and it's not traced back here, I don't see a problem with this arrangement."

Deadpool nods. "Discreet and fast, got it."

"Glad we came to an agreement, gentlemen."

Riley swivels in the overbearing chair and taps out a few words, and with a click of the mouse, finds the sparsely filled out profile. He pulls out a post-it and scrawls down an address and hands it over to Deadpool.

"So what's this? An internship?"

"Dad told me I can only take over the business if I switched into Econ, but I actually _like_ Comp Sci..."

"Follow your dreams," Deadpool enthused. "You'd look great in glasses."

"We'll see how it goes, maybe I can get him to get you guys a few freelance jobs after he comes back from his 'family vacation'," Riley offers with a small shrug. "See you boys around?" he asks, though his eyes alight exclusively on Wade.

"We'll see," Wade answers vaugely, and turns to leave, striding past the perturbed stares the Zapatas gave him.

\--

"YOU LOST IT?"

Mikey swerves away from his shouting partner, shoving his hands into his pants pockets.

"It was an honest mistake," he grumbles.

"You? Honest? How long has it been missing for? A week? Two? FUCK!"

Mikey squashes the urge to defend himself, knowing all too well that he wasn't cut out for beating Brad in a fight, verbal or otherwise and instead concentrates on pulling at every car door he passes by.

"Though really, you might want to get that checked."

"Get _what_ checked?"

"Y'know. That tourette business dealy."

"Tourette," Brad grinds out slowly, having carefully memorized the definition "is a syndrome in which the afflicted will have the uncontrollable urge to say a particular word or phrase, typically of the profane nature, though not necessarily. Said word is interspersed in their speech with no context whatsoever, and is more of a tic than a predilection to simply include a plethora of expletives into their lexicon."

Mikey remains unfazed with the convoluted explanation. "What does that mean?"

"It _means_ that I don't have tourette, fuckwad, what I have is the worst fucking luck in the world to be stuck working with you!"

"Of all the goddamn stunts to pull-- do you have any idea how much that van costs? Of course you don't, you can hardly count to ten--"

_-click-_

"Huh." Mikey pulls open the door a little wider and peers in. His eyes focuses in on something shiny.

"It's fine, it's totally fine, see? The key's still in the ignition."

"You better thank god for it," Brad spits, striding around to the other side of the van and yanking the door open, "now we're only point five percent less likely to suffocate in a vat of frosting in the next twenty-four hours."

"Poor Dan," Mikey shakes his head, climbing into the driver's seat and shut the door. He puts his hands on the wheel, drumming it with his thumbs.

"Well?"

Mikey shrugs. "Well what?"

"What the fuck are you waiting for? Zee Germans? Drive!"

\--

"That was the worst bit of verbal fellatio I've ever had the displeasure of witnessin'."

"Hey, if he wasn't the unholy amalgamation of Lee Pace and Cilian Murphy..."

Rigo shoves Deadpool sideways, making him lose his step and bounce against the wall. "Even if he was, there was no reason for you t'sink down onto your knees and take everything the brat gave you."

Deadpool waves the slip of paper underneath Rigo's nose. "We got the address didn't we?"

"We got **_a_** address."

"An address, you mean?"

"Bro--"

Deadpool smacks him on the back. "Hey, c'mon, it's fine. It's smooth sailing from here on out. Get in, punch his lights out, kick him in the head a few times, bang bang bang, get Bob, get out, then a round of chili fries."

"I just don't have a good feeling about none of this." Gus says from behind them, a frown on his face. "This is shaping up to be like a double reverse _Sunset Boulevard_. Daybreak Alley? Iunno. 'Course, if you're cool with being a kept man to some teen kid--"

"Just because I've got this magic touch--"

"Of the _Magic Mike_ variety." Gus mutters, pushing open the door to the streets.

"I don't think 'proficient at seducing teenagers is a good thing to put on a CV, s'all I'm saying." 

"Look, no one's keeping no one, alright? I just had to use a rarely exercised talent of mine to get--" Deadpool trails off, blankly staring at-- nothing.

The Zapatas join in with the staring. "Uh. Dude, where's your...?"

"I didn't park next to a fire hydrant, it couldn't have been towed," Deadpool blathers, jogging towards the empty parking space where the van was, circling the premises.

"Uh, Deadpool..."

"What?!" Deadpool yells, pulling each of his pouches open one by one, a myriad of paperclips, unused condoms, and barbecue sauce packets spilling out of them."

"You might be forgetting something...it's pretty important."

"Like what?!"

\--

And in a nondescript white van barreling down Westchester Avenue, Peter Parker finally wakes up to the sound of _Brazil_.


	6. You and Me (and Your Girl)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to StygianDawn for the beta work! Incredibly helpful and made this chapter at least 70% more readable. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Disclosure - You & Me ft. Eliza Doolittle (Flume Remix)](https://soundcloud.com/flume/disclosure-you-me-flume-remix)  
> [Tourist - Your Girl](https://soundcloud.com/touristmusic/your-girl)

"That over-rated, glorified glue trap..."

Rigo scratches at his chin, "Uh, why would he want your van. His general MO is swingin' around. Y'know, the ‘doing everything spiders can’ crap..."

"Does he even have a driver's licence?" Gus wonders.

Rigo snorts. "Imagine being right behind him at the DMV."

"He's not going to _use_ it." Deadpool elaborates. "This is like, psychological warfare, which is totally unfair because I already got the whole crazy thing going on."

"Then what--" Gus starts, but he's loudly interrupted by a blaring, sustained honk from a SUV not five feet from them. The driver's window rolls down, and a man smacks his hand on the door. "Hey fellas! Either knock each other out already or get the fuck out of the way!"

Rigo nudges Gus with an elbow. "Your turn, bro."

Gus rolls his neck, and shakes his hands loose, "fine, but I call--"

"Still driving," Deadpool cuts in.

"Still shotgun,“ Rigo follows up.

Gus sighs, but duly makes his way towards the driver, who quickly ducks his head back in the car and rolls up the window. As an extra precautionary measure, he flicks on the window wipers. The wrestler merely drops a hand onto the side-view mirror, leaning onto it as he crosses his arms.

"I can drag you out and smash your face into the pavement, or you can come out yourself so I can smash your face into the pavement," Gus offers, "your choice."

The man shakes his head furiously, and throws the car into reverse, only to have the whole row of cars behind him beeping furiously.

"We don't have all day, Gus!" Deadpool shouts through cupped hands. The man shrinks back into the seat as Gus shrugs half-apologetically outside of his window.

“Nothing personal,” Gus promises with a nasty grin, “so I’ll make this reaaaaaal quick.”

\--

_Braziiiiiiiiil...where hearts were entertaining Juneeeeee..._

Peter grunts, turning over slightly, wrinkling his nose in the process. However, all that did was knock the phone left in his hands onto his hip, the device still merrily vibrating away on its precarious, bony perch.

_We stood beneath an amber moon, and softly whispered: someday soon..._

He stirs, fighting through the cotton of disorientation, and squints down at his lap, the blue glow of the screen flashing up at his face. Peter gingerly picks up the phone and notices that the picture of the caller-- _a girl_ \-- has been entered into the phone book as, "CRAZY." Peter snorts, and looks around the van. He sways in place with the movement of the van, but he couldn't help but feel that something off. For starters, there was no one else in the back with him, and unless Deadpool ditched a Zapata (pretty likely, all things considering), either the front seats were currently very cozy with mercenaries or he was in deep shit.

_THEEEENNN...TOMORROW WAS ANOTHER DAAAAAAAAAAAAAY..._

Peter glares at the screen, now that the ringtone was getting louder and more obnoxious the more he ignored it, much like a certain--

"Oh," Peter breathes out, finally putting an owner to the phone. Hesitantly, he presses the answer button.

"Hello?" A gentle Texan twang asked.

Peter coughs, clearing his throat to attempt at a gruff voice, but he only manages a squeaky, "hi?" instead.

"Wade? Wade hun, is that you?"

Shit. _Shit._

"Uhmmm," Peter manages at a lower octave after a debilitatingly long pause. Any attempts at even sounding remotely Deadpoolian went out of the window. Monosyllabic grunts it was.

"I've been trying to call you for ages, look--" A sigh. "I'll be totally honest. I wasn't going to call, but Sandi kept saying I owed you at least this, and I heard from her that you went to the agency to find me--"

Peter presses the phone closer to his ear, a puzzle piece slotting itself into place. He knows this person.

"Inez?" he guesses out loud.

"Yes?"

"Nothing," Peter hastily replied.

"Oh. Um, well--I--" she stumbles, and Peter clutches the phone in his hands, wincing slightly. Hearing her tripping over her words was welling up a backlash of secondary embarrassment in him. "I'm a little busy right now--" he tries.

"No! Just please-- don't. Hang up, I mean. Please, I really need to talk to you."

Peter's blood freezes, and he's not even the intended recipient. "But--"

"Ok, I'll-- I'll get this out of the way first. Now I don't want you lording it over my head none, but...this was my fault. I don't regret what we did, but I didn't want you two to meet like that, and Mike has been swearing up and down that you're to blame, but..."

Peter squints, beyond confused.

"It was darn sweet of ya to find me a place and decorate for me, y'know? You're a thoughtful guy if you put your mind to it. And I-- I guess I got caught up in all of that? It's not even like Mike is boring me or anything, just--well, Sandi keeps telling me that I'm too _finicky_ or whatnot. Like I should think things over, and take it slow...and that's the thing. I keep thinking about us. What..." Inez takes a deep breath.

"What it would be like if we tried to be with each other."

Peter balks, "I think I should go--"

Inez powers on, "And I picked a really bad time to try out my theory. But even then, I-- couldn't." Inez says with a mirthless chuckle. "I couldn't even imagine us lasting until next week! You're off the wall sometimes, but I know you're a great guy, but somehow...I can't imagine us staying together. I-- you know that I care. About you, right?"

"Uhhhh," Peter replies.

"Hey, are you feeling ok? You're not saying much."

Shit.

"You still there?"

Peter swallows. The alarm bells in his head are telling him to abort mission, and he wracks his brain for the quickest way to shut down a conversation with a girl, something that typically comes very easily to him anyways.

"Um. What's the difference between three dicks and a joke?(1)"

-click-

Peter breathes a sigh of relief, though still a little uneasy at being privvy to something so personal. Still, Peter isn't in any hurry to confess to impersonating the merc, especially since he had no choice in the matter. And he's doing Inez a favor, after all. Who would think being with Deadpool was a good idea?

Peter tosses the phone away, letting it skip across the floor of the van and bump lightly against the other side. _Out of the friends-with-benefits-zone is right_ , he thinks to himself, shaking his head. 

A minor bang sounds from the front of the van, and Peter can hear a muffled argument starting.

"What do you mean you're not sure?!"

"Bossman wasn't all that clear on the directions."

"It didn't occur to you _to ask_?"

"I was stressed! It was a stressful environment!"

"There's three Milk Bars in Manhattan alone, and you couldn't even ask which one it was?"

Neither voice sounds like the Zapatas or Deadpool, and Peter gets up, about to exit the van.

"We'll just hit them all-- aren't they practically almost on the same street?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you _want_ to hit midtown traffic right at rush hour? Take in the scenery while you're at it?"

"I don't even see why we gotta pick this bomber dude up, can't the boss just _invite him_ to the office? This is dumb."

Peter’s eyes widen, and makes his way back to the front, pressing his ear against the wall.

"Oh fer the love of--"

_If your girl only knew, that you were trying to get with me, what would she do? If your girl only knew, that you was dissin' her to talk to me..._

Peter turns and finds Deadpool's phone lighting up again, obviously still stuck in the 90's. He plucks the phone up, taking note of the name "GUSSY GOOSE". He shakes his head, pressing ignore. It instantly calls again.

_If your girl only knew, that you were trying to get wit--_

Peter sighs, and answers this time.

"Gus?"

"Hey asshole!," Deadpool greets, "Thanks for stealing my van! Not like I needed it anyways. No, that's a lie: that van is the only thing that has ever truly understood and loved me back. Mind giving me a clue as to where you drove it to? Hawaii? Into space? Off a bridge? I'm partial to a game of 20 questions if that's your thing."

Peter starts seeing red. "I fucking _beg_ your un-holy-fucking-goddamn-believable pardon? You knocked me out and left me for dead in here!" he snarls, pacing back and forth, left hand slashing the air.

"You heard me, sugar muffin. And don't piss on me when I did exactly what you told me to do."

"I don't recall telling you to try and kill me!"

"You told me to 'think of something'!" Deadpool snaps back, "So I thought of letting you take a nice little nap while I take care of some business."

"I would think 'not inducing bodily harm and-slash-or putting me in danger' would be implicit in the instructions!"

"Sweetheart, you and I know very well that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. I had the utmost faith in you to be a big boy and not need Deezy Peezy there to hold your hand. I'm not your _babysitter_ , Spides."

 _But I am_ , Peter thinks bitterly. "You were banking on me sleepwalking my way out of trouble or something?"

"I don't know-- maybe-- look, just tell me where my van is! You sick, van-napping fuck!"

"I'm not driving it," Peter remarks flatly. "Remember, the whole 'stuck in the back of this hell-trap on wheels' bit?"

"So stick your head out and tell me what street you're passing by."

"On second thought: being kidnapped is better than seeing you again--"

"Spidester, you hang up on me, and I swear on Cary Grant's dreamy, manly smirk--"

"Oopsie," Peter singsongs as he wraps the phone into a ball of web, then redirects his attention to the conversation in the front seat.

"Ok, we can rule out the Upper West Side one at least, right? Boss don't got property up there."

"That still leaves the East Village and Midtown. How are we going to--ok, fine, you'll drop me off at 5th avenue, then we can meet back up later. Take your phone. Oi, Mikey, are you listeni--LOOK OUT!"

\--

"--that I'll make sure to-- shit!" Deadpool blindly tosses the phone into the backseat of the stolen SUV, to the dismayed yelp coming from Gus, who quickly cradles the phone into his meaty hands, delicately checking it for scratches and cracks.

"Dude! You don't mess with a dude's phone; that's a dealbreaker."

"Gus, you make over 12 million a year. I think you can afford a new phone even with your limited budget, buddy."

"But it's a bitch to hafta re-install all the apps and--"

"What did Spider-man say?" Rigo cuts in.

Deadpool shrugs, "Shit about how I'm to blame for him getting kidnapped or whatever. Dunno. Virgins are weird." He steps harder on the gas pedal, swerving into the opposite lane to bypass an entire row of cars waiting at a red light.

Something in the rear view mirror catches his eye, and he tugs the wheel sharply down to make a 120 degree turn, but notices the first vehicle to his right, and pulls the wheel to its limit.

"Boys, you might want to get out of the car."

\--

"I think you killed him."

Mikey is still clutching the steering wheel, staring straight ahead with wide eyes.

"Oh god..."

"Mikey, hang in there, just-- drive around-- Mikey!" Brad yells, as Mikey struggles to take off his seatbelt and dashes out of the van, circling the car they just crashed into.

And even in the midst of the gasoline, smoke, the thick underlying stink of blood invades Mikey's senses, and he darts around the vehicle. The airbags have been inflated, and from the right side of the car, Mikey doesn't see anyone inside.

Hesitantly, he opens the car door. The smell of blood is impossible to ignore, now that the entire interior is drenched red, though missing something rather crucial.

Brad sticks his head of the window, "Mikey, fer the love of-- hey!"

"Sorry, man," Rigo says, reaching a hand in to unlock the door from the inside and pull open the door.

"But this ain't your van anyway," Gus says with a flippant shrug, and the two haul him out and throw him against the sidewalk. They pile inside the van and start the ignition, slowly driving around the totaled SUV in front them.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

"Driving?" Gus asks, slamming the door shut.

"No, like, aren't you forgetting something?"

"Like what?"

\--

"What are you--hey! HEY!"

Peter presses his ear harder against the wall, and after hearing a muffled yelp and a loud 'thud', coupled with a few familiar voices. He stumbles back and races to the back of van. If the Zapatas are here, then that means...

The back door rolls up, and Deadpool, maskless with his face entirely drenched in blood starts climbing onto van just as the vehicle starts up and lurches forward. "Miss me, beautiful?" Deadpool coos, wiping the blood out of his eyes.

Peter doesn't miss the chance to slap a web onto Deadpool's face and with a kick at the wall, launching himself onto the ceiling and tries to crawl out of the van. A hard grip on his ankle stops him from making it very far though, and Peter looks down, seeing Deadpool clawing at his own face, trying to pull the web off and ripping away bits of skin in the process. 

Deadpool's face is a mess of blood and deep lacerations, and Peter swears he sees some glass shards embedded into his neck, but he doesn't have time to revel in the dizzying new height of grotesqueness Deadpool's face has taken, as the man gives a hard tug at Peter's foot, and manages to bring Peter's other leg down. 

The younger man swings his foot back and slams it hard into Deadpool's face, letting go of the ceiling and dropping down to the floor. Seeing an opening, he goes in for the kill, curling his hand into a fist and driving it dead into the side of Deadpool's face. The other man snarls out in pain, clutching his face and staggering like a dazed, angry bull before lunging forward, but Peter bounces out of the way and strings Deadpool onto the ceiling in a hastily made cocoon, leaving him suspended in the air.

It still doesn't stop Deadpool from wriggling around frantically, trying to break free. "Jesus on a stick-- I save you from getting kidnapped, and this is the thanks I get? I think my suit's permanently grafted onto my skin, thanks dickwad."

"You're the reason I got so-called 'kidnapped'! And in a ridiculous turn of events, you're letting them get away."

Deadpool blinks. "Um. Yeah?"

Peter vaguely points at the van's back door, "They're heading towards the bomber, and they were going to say where they were heading, until you guys showed up and tossed them out!"

Deadpool frowns. "Wait, they didn't look like the police. Even undercover kind."

"They weren't, they were-- I dunno, hitmen sent to get our guy and--"

"Perfect!" Deadpool chirps, "Lookit, Spiderella, we got the address to the Bombinomicon! While he's out, we can just break in and reverse-kidnap Bob."

Peter doesn't really want to know the answer, but he asks anyways: "...you don't really see the glaring flaw in that logic?"

"Enlighten me."

"You ever thought _where_ a guy like that might go on a night out?"

"Duane Reade?" Deadpool snorts, "Please, don't give me that stupid look. My weak constitution might not be able to take it. This guy isn't so dan--"

"So we're just going to wait for him to fuck shit up before dealing with it?" Peter hurls back, “didn’t you say we weren’t going to do that?.”

"I thought you said not to use the word 'we'," Deadpool lightly mentions. "You do know that you can bail at any time, right? I'm not exactly in any position to hold you against your will right now."

Peter stops, swallowing back the tirade he had planned.

Deadpool goes on. "You don't like my methods. Fair enough, not everyone can handle the intensity that is the Deadpool lyfe-with-a-y. Whatever floats your proverbial boat," Deadpool grunts, still struggling in his organic cage. "But you don't exactly have to stick around and spew shit back at me when you could be off doing your own thing."

It was true, and Deadpool was displaying a rare show of lucidity that it made Peter's skin crawl. Did he know what was going on? Peter mulls it over. He can't, he couldn't. If he did, he'd have demanded a cut of the SHIELD salary or went on a convoluted spiel about how he was being oppressed or discriminated against or explaining some brand-new ‘ism’ he made up on the spot.

He could leave. He should leave. New York needed him more than SHIELD did right now, and Deadpool would only ruin things further. But something was keeping him there, staring blankly at the dried blood crusting on Deadpool's face as he weighs his options. However, his thoughts were disturbed by a loud, 'FUCK!' coming from the front of the van.

BANG BANG BANG.

"Shit, Rigo, why didn't you just _tell me_ what I forgot--hey Spidey, you back there? Or is it just Wilson jawing to himself-- again?"

"My voice doesn't go that high," Deadpool drawls, and Peter shoots him a glare.

"Well, glad you ain't dead or whatever. And DP, your directions are shit. Like, literally shit-- Gus put the address into Google Maps and it's a wastewater treatment plant."

"I never ruled out the possibility that we're looking for a hobo," Deadpool defends.

"Yeah, either we'll get ambushed, or the kid told you to Get Fucked. Back to square one now."

"Uh, actually, I have a pretty good idea where he might be. A couple of hitmen stole this van and said they were heading towards a Milk Bar in Manhattan, whatever that is."

Silence.

"Shiiiiit," Gus says, a bit in awe.

Rigo follows up, "Wilson, Spidey sat on his ass in a dark van for the last two hours, and he wound up managing to get more clues than you. Oh and by the way, that Milk Bar is one of them overly expensive dessert joints that doubles as a one-stop-shop for diabetes. You know which branch they were talkin' about?"

"No," Peter admits, looking at Deadpool out of the corner of his eye. The man's being eerily quiet. "If you were a lunatic, which one would you pick?"

"East Village," the brothers chimed simultaneously.

"Worst and cruelest way to die is waiting in a Milk Bar line."

“Are we anywhere near it?” Peter asks

Rigo lets out a barking laugh. “No, but we will be soon enough,” he promises, and with a flick of his wrists, spins the van around in a 180, heading uptown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1)The punchline: Your mom can't take a joke.
> 
> So yeah, HEY GUYS. HOW Y'ALL BEEN? I said that there'd be more romantic inclinations between Messrs Wilson and Parker, but then I conveniently remembered that I have the emotional sensitivity of a mollusk and this task of trying to inject romance between them was a harder endeavor than I previously imagined. 
> 
> So I went and played Bioshock for half of forever. (It's a brilliant game, highly, HIGHLY recommend it.) Good news: I feel more confident in planning/writing out fight scenes. Mediocre news: Mollusks are way more considerate/socially inclined than I am now.


	7. Advanced Humor for Mature People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big big big ups to StygianDawn and Inga for beta-ing this chapter!! Any and all mistakes are solely mine.
> 
>  
> 
> [SPEED-RUN TIME!](http://youtu.be/AYjCXjIeNJk)

"Sooooooooo...which one is it?"

"Deadpool, if any of us knew, I don't think we'd be hiding behind this dumpster," Peter snaps. They've barely hunkered down for more than ten seconds, and Deadpool was already fidgeting like a squirrel trapped in a bird feeder.

"Are we _all_ supposed to just squat here like hobos? In that case, one of us should start a fire pit. I'll go and find some rats we can skewer," Deadpool grumbles, smacking the metal lid in front of him petulantly.

Peter steadies his hands, pushing down the temptation of throwing Deadpool into the dumpster and webbing it closed, " _I'm sorry_ ," he says, not very sorry at all, "did you have anything else to do tonight besides looking for a domestic terrorist?"

"Technically no, but I also don't wanna be spending the rest of the night watching tourists. I think it's their job to do all the watching, not us."

“Deadpool, I know it’s ridiculously hard for you, but Jesus H. Christ, could you stop being such a total tool for once?”

"Heh," Gus snickers, "Deadtool." Rigo just covers his face with his hands, already bracing himself for the inevitable argument festering between the two masked men.

Deadpool initiates the jazzhands. "Oh look at me, I'm Spiderdick. I’m fucking RUDE AS SHIT and I use my wrist jizz to save people and everyone should worship me because I have the awesome power of being able to ejaculate from my hands."

"And I'm Deadbeat, who somehow manages to combine narcissism with sociopathic tendencies in a single package! And as a bonus, I have the uncanny ability to warp my mind to think that everything has to be angsty and awful and all about me!"

Deadpool flips him off. "Pot. Staring into a mirror."

"Kettle, staring into the abyss, and finding out that even the yawning, all-consuming blackness doesn't want to stick around for the existential crisis."

Silence.

"I hate you. I hate you and your hate."

Peter pretends to faint.. "Oh wow, cool, we mutually hate each other! Fantastic! Yet another milestone reached and another thing checked off the old bucket list!"

"Riigooooo, make it stoooop," Gus whines.

Rigo smacks his palm to his forehead. While he's rather grateful that so far no one has burst into a fiery inferno, they didn't enter into a time-space wormhole, and everyone more or less had the same appendages they started out with, it didn't seem very fair that he and his brother were the ones to have to break up a fight between the two mouthiest freaks in the Virgo Supercluster.

"Let's not waste anymore time hurting each other's precious feelings and think up a better plan than sitting here watching people eat too many calories in one sitting," Rigo cuts in, wedging Deadpool and Spider-man apart.

"I say we just all go in," Deadpool immediately offers up.

Peter shakes his head. "We're in costume, genius, everyone will either panic or hound us."

"Well, either they panic, or they die," Deadpool shrugs, seemingly not caring which one occurs.

Peter glares. "Best case scenario is we take down the guy before he gets to do anything-- having an entire shop of customers running around like headless chickens isn't going to do anyone any favors."

"We can at least deter the guy away from the shop if we enter now," Deadpool counters.

"That's assuming he hasn't gone in yet-- and we also run the chance of losing him as well if he leaves on his own. He could also get panicky and do something drastic while we're in there to take us out."

"On a date?" Deadpool cheekily quips. He raises a hand, but to his dismay, no one takes him up on his high-five.

"Aw, c'mon you guyssss," he whines, "we can't sit here forever. Or at least I can't. If you losers wanna wallflower it up, be my guest, I'm heading in."

Peter balks. "Are you kidding? You're just going to just barge in there, shove everyone in line out of the way and order food."

"Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same thing, ya hypocrite."

 _At least I'd wait in line_ , Peter thought peevishly.

"How about you both go in," Gus interjects, trying to be diplomatic but just really wishing he didn't have to listen to them talk.

"NO!" 

Gus shrugs at Rigo, pointedly not meeting either Deadpool's or Spider-man's murderous twin glares.

Rigo claps a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder. "They can't be reasoned with, we just gotta do it."

Peter doesn't want to, but asks anyways: "Do what?"

\--

"Why is this even happening?!" 

Peter's more or less upside down, carried like a sack of flour over Rigo's right shoulder, while Deadpool occupies the man's left.

"Don't struggle too much, if you do, he'll just throw you straight into the nearest glass pane," Deadpool warns.

Peter's pretty sure he can make it out of the wrestler's grasp, but the warning squeeze tells him that he might end up with a broken spine if he tried.

He hears a whir and a click of a smartphone's camera, soon followed by its brethren as the people waiting outside the bakery clamored to take a particularly humiliating photo of their city's savior. Peter even sees one guy setting up a tripod.

_Great._

Behind him, three teenagers crowd together, whispering not all too subtly at each other.

"Why are there two Spider-mans?"

"Maybe one's Spider-ninja, and the other is Spider-man Classic? Like cousins or some shit," his friend suggested.

The girl in the group scoffs, "Idiots, they're both cosplayers, those costumes are so cheap, I saw that same shit on eBay last week for 40 bucks."

"I resent that!" Deadpool twists to yell at the girl.

Peter shakes his head, "you're fine with being Spider-ninja?"

"At a certain point, you kinda just go with it. Oh, and by the way, you still owe me for that froyo, so I want to be reimbursed now, that'd be great, thanks."

"I don't owe you anything, you piece of--"

Rigo drops them without warning, and they both crash onto the floor, elbows and knees first. He squats down to their level, and smacks both of them in the head.

“You two boneheads gonna knock it off, or am I gonna hafta knock off your heads first? Shiiit, ‘pooly, we were in Rio when you called, man. We didn’t come up to freeze our asses off just so you can start catfights with Spider-man all damn day--”

"JESUS SHIT--"

The three turn towards the scream, and finds a young man in the corner coughing and hacking, blood dripping off of his blackened lips. He slams a hand against the table to hold himself up, and Peter can see a brightly colored, lime-flavored Gatorade bottle falling from his hands...

"NO!" Peter yells, surging forward to catch the bottle with a web, but a few drops of the sports drink still splashes out, splattering onto a nearby wooden table.

BOOM!

A fire explodes to life, eating its way along the long table and chairs next to it. Screams clash with the blaring fire alarm, and Peter leaps towards the man, dragging him away from the fire. The line towards the cash register has now been split into two: those nearer to the door managed to push and squeeze their way out with the Zapatas ushering them out, while the other customers and staff huddle behind the service area, effectively blocked from the front door.

Deadpool leaps onto the counter, gun out, scanning for the culprit, but Peter pushes past him, dropping the man in his arms in front of the trapped customers. His Spidey-sense is stabbing needles into his brain, there's something bigger than all this, waiting in the sidelines. "GET TO THE KITCHEN! NOW!"

"Spides--"

And then the sprinklers turn on.

Deadpool lunges towards Peter and grabs him before he can react, slamming him into a corner as the green water rained down, eating away at everything it landed on.

Including Deadpool.

"PieceofshitcuntcockTITSASSCHRISTFUCKFUCKSHITFUCKFUCK!!!!!"

Peter's heart thrums like a hummingbird, with Deadpool's anguished yells right next to his ear making goosebumps race down his spine and he involuntarily clutches at Deadpool’s shoulders.

He whips out a layer of web parallel to the ceiling, but the drops of green water splattering out warps and corrodes the entire room, fixtures and support beams weakening.

Deadpool snarls and grits and curses and screams, still shielding Peter from the deadly water that was now seeping in through the spandex of his suit and onto his skin. Peter's eyes widen, watching as it burns its way through, down to bone, and the ever cloying scent of blood from Deadpool escalates five-fold, as the man's entire back was now slick and shiny and red, the blood sluicing down and dribbling onto the floor.

Peter tries to move, but Deadpool boxes him in closer. Peter searches around the room, though his field of vision is severely limited by Deadpool closing in on him. He spots over the counter the plastic menu board above the cash register. He worms a hand in through Deadpool's elbow and tries to fire a web, looking to drag it over. He tries to ignore the sting, but it's no use as the web disintegrates before it even makes it to the board.

Deadpool leans forward, dangerously close, and Peter can feel their breaths mingling as their noses brush intimately.

Peter gags, bringing a hand up to cover his face. "Can I please pay you to eat an entire can of breath mints?"

Deadpool hacks out a burbling, blood-filmed cackle, "I'm here trying to be your valiant meatshield in shining armor, and you spring that up on me."

"We're _BOTH_ going to wind up melting if we don't fucking get out of here soon."

"Well, thank you, detective! I'm fucking fresh out of ideas, seeing as now my skull's basically goo now, what've you got?"

Peter's mouth twists into a grimace, and he looks Deadpool straight in the eyes. "You won't like it," he warns.

"Will it work?"

"Maybe."

Deadpool squeezes his eyes shut.

"Do we have a choice?"

"Unless you want me to think of a Plan B which by then, you'd just be a puddle on the floor."

"Fine, just-- FUCK!" Deadpool hisses, "Hurry up, will you?"

Peter nods, and grabs the mercenary by the arms, dragging him close--

before wrapping him up in several layers of web. He pulls back and with a hard swing, slams Deadpool up onto the ceiling, cracking it.

Deadpool screams. Loud.

"THIS WAS YOUR FUCKING BRILLIANT IDEA?!" Deadpool howls, his open sores now gushing out even more blood, staining the webs through. Peter winces, but doesn't reply, making sure not to breathe in the dust floating down from the crack that he's made. The dust cloud isn't much, but it somewhat lessens the impact of the acid, and he webs Deadpool onto the corner of the ceiling, before climbing up along the wall in relative safety from the acid. 

 

Holding onto the wall, he slams his feet into the crack on the ceiling, and he succeeds in busting a hole through it, though not breaking it all the way to get into the floor above.

He looks around, but doesn't find much in the room that isn't melted or on fire, and his human battering ram isn't looking all too good either. Peter's stomach twists, Deadpool's mangled body stuck onto the wall like a limp ragdoll, looking all but dead, mouth hung slack and heavy.

Peter grits his teeth, and with another kick, breaks through the concrete and wooden flooring, the sharp bits of the wood ripping at his suit and the concrete chunks pelting down on him, but he shakes it all off, grabbing Deadpool, careful not to jostle the man too much, and hauling them both up into the hole and out the nearest window, finally out of the burning building for good.

He lands, careful not to immediately drop Deadpool on the ground in pure exhaustion, and the paramedics, police quickly surround him, stepping over Deadpool’s body and murmur their thanks, patting him on the back while the crowd behind the traffic cones cheer heartily. Peter looks down at his feet and says nothing.

\--

Wade finally wakes up. Ugly wallpaper. Sheets on top of him. Bed.

Bed?

Wade takes in a breath, and the smell of home hits him-- of dirty laundry, smoke, and booze.

But the thing that grabbed his attention the most was the warm hand on his own, with the thumb rubbing small circles over his knuckles.

A little soft. A little worried.

Spider-man.

Fuck. Spider-man's _holding his hand_.

He looks like shit. There's scorch marks all over his uniform, not to mention the rips and cuts throughout the fabric. Wade's eyes roam across the crisscrossing marks and settles on a giant bandage plastered on the hero's chest, tinged red with blood, follows the wince when he breathes that indicates broken ribs.

Wade's about to make a dumb joke, something about petting zoos and selling tickets, but he just closes his eyes again, and tries to even out his breathing instead. 

Of course, Spider-man picks up on the fake breathing, and pulls back as if burned. Wade gives up, and opens his eyes to a nervous Spider-man, clutching one hand with the other.

Wade weakly waves.

"Hi?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH! RELATIONSHIP DEVELOPMENT! WHOO! Good thing too, because they were one "do u poop out webs lol"/"hey, i think i saw some of your cousins when i was playing outlast" joke away from never speaking to each other ever again.
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you to those who have been so kind enough to take the time and leave a comment/kudos. I'm humbled at the support I've been getting, even with the lack of updates. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for sticking it out with me. And thank YOU for reading this far, whether you've been here since last year or just stumbled onto this now. You guys are so wonderful! ;u;)/ 
> 
>  


	8. Aishiteru

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii every1!! This is savant-chan here. ^^ I kno I haven't updated in soOOoOoOoooOOoo long, but I've been really really busy! *sweatdrops* >__>;; School sucks soooo much! I've been letting all you Spideypoolers down!!! Gomen, minna-san! But I'm back with a new chappie, pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase leave me a review and NO FLAMES!!! I use em for marshmallows of DOOM!!! *sets everything on fiyah!!* >P Hehehehe! FEAR MEH. 
> 
> -APRIL FIRST, TWENTY-FOURTEEN

When Wade-chan woke up, Peter-kun was holding his hand.

It was dark outside but it was light inside so he could see and feel the hand. So it was doubly verified that Peter-kun was there and not a ghost or anything.

He blushed, where were these feelings coming from and who were they for?

~*~They say true love doesn't exist~*~

Peter-kun still had his mask on, but he wasn't looking at Wade-chan...at all!

Suddenly, out of nowhere, magically (where did they come from?!?!?) Peter-kun had some strawberry pocky (the best kind! XP). "Do you want to share with me?" he asked shyly.

Wade-chan blinked at him. Then blinked some more. He would have blinked until the universe stopped but then Peter-kun ripped open the package and shoved some pocky in Wade-chan's mouth, still blushing about it.

"You were hurt really badly yesterday, Wade-sama," Peter-kun whispered, with hints of tears in his eyes, "and I didn't know what to do."

It was true! Because since forever, Peter-kun has had a big crush on Wade-chan-sama-san because he was so cool and handsome and hot and funny and really really bishie, but he was always afraid of being rejected so he tried to be mean and tsundere to him, but after Wade-kun put himself in danger for him, he couldn't hide his feelings anymore!

~*~insert some arashi lyrics here, i'll have them up when i have access to my computer later, at the school library right nao, hehe ^__~v~*~

All of a sudden, a pocky pokes him on the mouth, with Wade-kun holding onto the other half with his mouth!!

"Mmm?" Wade-chan asks.

Trembling, Peter-kun opened his mouth, before pulling back. "Baka! That's stupid! Eat it by yourself!"

Wade-chan shrugs, and eats the whole pocky, crunching loudly.

"NOOOOOOOOO!" Peter-kun cries T__T. "You were supposed to try to share it anyways!"

"Oh," Wade-chan says, and pulls out a pocky stick and hands it to Peter-kun.

Peter-kun was fed up. "No, LIKE THIS!!" And he crams the pocky into his mouth and kisses Wade-chan even though he was still eating!

They kissed for a really long time and they could have choked but they didn't because they were in love.

Finally, they separated, and Peter-kun's heart was beating so fast, but it was ok. Then they got some ramen and watched some Kill la Kill (haha get it?).

TEH END!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, if you wanna kno why I wrote it as Peter-kun and Wade-chan, it's coz Peter is seme and Wade is uke! DUH!! I kno some peeps like it the other way, but that's just super weird, you weirdos! 0___o
> 
> Anywaaaaaays, hope you liked this ficcy! The sequel to this is gonna come up in a week or so! Not gonna spoil anything, but it has our fav 2 boys going to Nippon Hogwarts! ^___~


	9. Birds are Sky Garbage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to thank you guys for being a good sport about the April fools joke and not hiring a wizard to curse me. Thanks!! Though if you did hire a wizard, please tell me so I know if I should go to a doctor or a witch doctor or a veterinarian (in case you decide I'd look good as a slug, in which case jokes on you as I already possess many slug-like qualities). to the rest of you, a casual, no big deal question: what's the most budget-friendly way to bribe/seduce a wizard into not cursing you.
> 
> Cas, as always, is a saving grace and actual hero for editing this chapter like a pro. I'm super lucky to have him on board, seriously. :')

Spider-man blinks, before sitting normally again. "Er...how are you feeling?"

Deadpool looks down at himself, pulling the sheet off. He has two legs and two arms in more or less the correct places, and he’s pretty sure that his dick is attached somewhere around his crotch area so he can't complain.

"Ok."

"Ok? Your entire epidermis melted off, remember?"

Wade shrugs. "C'est la vie. Last week, I had a javelin through the head. This is pretty much nothing. But you kind of have some..." Wade waves a hand around, "Areas… to iron out." He gestures generically at Spider-man's entire body. It's _weird_ , seeing the hero like this, all battered and bruised. Wade frowns, not sure what to make of it.

Spider-man shrugs half-heartedly. "I've been better," he admits at last, his right hand clutching at his left shoulder as he curls inwards. "The Zapatas brought you back here, and I had to help out with two different fires uptown--"

"Is it linked to our douchey little pyromaniac?"

Spider-man lets out a laugh that quickly descends into a hard, rattling cough, pressing a hand onto the bandages on his chest. Wade stops himself before his hand reaches the hero's arm. 

"It probably is. The sprinkler system was actually filled with water, but they're still trying to figure out why everything started melting when it activated. Pepsico's recalling all of their soft drinks, not just their Gatorade line, but I don't know, it just..doesn't _feel_ right. This doesn't sound like a disgruntled worker deciding to contaminate an entire shipment just because he got laid off or something."

“Or got laid.”

Wade could practically hear Spider-man’s eyes roll. It wasn’t exactly mind-bogglingly difficult to guess what the man was thinking, as Wade was starting to realize.

"Either way, it's become a fracking nightmare. City Hall's trying to get out the word that the tap is safe, but no one is willing to turn on the faucet when there’s a chance that their sink starts melting onto the floor or their house explodes or whatever."

Wade snorts.

"What's so funny?" Spider-man demands.

"Just--" Wade waves a hand, leaning back as he smirks. "Couldn't even resist a pun, could you? Fracking nightmare, seriously?"

Spider-man ducks his head and laughs quietly, Wade eventually joining in. This felt good. This... _thing_ of talking to Spider-man civilly. It was admittedly kind of weirding him out, but he couldn't really say no to something as rare as someone enjoying his company.

This was light. Fun. _Easy_. "Ok, don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up," Deadpool chants in his head, "you got this, just stay cool, don't force it, just be yourself--"

"Hey, why the hell is it that we've got augmented reality and 3D printers, but no one has made a breakthrough in sex robots?"

_DAMMIT!_

"AIs currently don't have that level of empathy needed for a sexual relationship," Spider-man replies without missing a beat. "Besides, the uncanny valley for something like that would be so deep, it'd make the Marianas Trench look like a kiddie pool."

"You think about this kind of stuff too?" Wade shakes his head.

"Well, I mean, stakeouts can get kind of boring, and you'd like bring a book or even play some dumb mobile game, but _no_ because the last time you tried, the guy managed to leave and smuggle that shipment of radioactive WMDs off without you noticing, and it took _weeks_ before Captain America would even look at you without wrinkling his nose like you just stepped in some--”

And the door opens.

“Well, well, well, well, well….” Rigo drawls, sauntering in with a greasy paper bag in each hand.

“Is it Sadako or Timmy? Or maybe even their illegitimate child?” Deadpool cuts in.

“Look who it is,” Gus all but coos, coming in right behind his brother, “Mr. ‘Don’t-drop-him- _he’s-so-hurt_ ’ is right where we left him, huh bro?” Gus sighs, throwing his voice up a few octaves at the taunt as he clasps his hands together and presses them to his cheek.

“‘Don’t move him so much!’” Rigo joins in with the mocking, emitting the same whiny tone. “‘He’s lost _so much blood_ and _I don’t know what to do_.’” 

“I never said all that,” Spider-man mutters from the corner where he sandwiched himself in, looking like he’s trying his best to blend in with the wallpaper.

Rigo shrugs, ”Seriously though man, I know you’re kinda new at this being around an immortal Frankenstein-slash-Two legged-Hydra-slash-Byronic Jester, but it’s cool. Taking care of Deadpool is easier than taking care of a chia pet, though admittedly with less benefits.”

“I object--”

“This ain’t court and you ain’t Phoenix Wright over here.”

“Also, he posted a vine of himself shooting a Javelin into his skull just last week. So everythin-- I shouldn’t have said that, should I,” Gus flatly asks, judging by the way Spider-man spins his head so fast to glare at Wade that by all means, his neck should have snapped.

“You _what_?”

“Would it be any consolation if I said that it _did_ net me 2000 more followers?”

“How could you even _think_ that was a legitimate way to-- no. No,” Spider-man shakes his head as if to wipe away a ridiculous idea. “You were right guys, little to no benefit whatsoever.”

“Aww, not you too,” Wade pouts. “And here I was, certain we were going to get matching tattoos together soon.”

“Can you even have tattoos?”

“Well, no,” Wade shrugs, “but it’d look really cool for the two hours it’ll be on for.”

"Anyways,” Gus cuts in, “seriously, we were gonna get you some chicken noodle soup..."

"But with the whole fracking scare, no one's makin' anything,” Rigo explains.

"Plus, the nearest deli is like 2 blocks away and like, man, shit that's fuckin' far..."

"So we got you some chicken and waffles,” Rigo ends, tossing the two bags over to Wade.

“Awww, and they’re not even in a styrofoam box or anything,” Deadpool sniffs gratefully, before dumping the entire paper bag’s contents onto his bedsheets. The crumbs spill everywhere and immediately stain the fabric with tell-tale grease trails. He immediately begins cramming his face.

“Want some?” He garbled through a mouthful of waffle, bits spraying everywhere. 

“We already ate,” the brothers say in unison, but Wade waves a hand.

“I meant…” he looks around. “Uh. Did we just lose Webhead...again?”

\--

“Took your time, didn’t you?”

“Well, heh, about that boss…” Brad laughs nervously.

“Some crah-raaazy guy jacked our van…” Mikey picks up.

“So we had to make our way downtown by subway…”

“And you know how THAT goes-- well maybe you don’t…”

“Point is, the train was delayed for the longest time…”

“And when we got there, this motherfucker already left, so we had to track him down.”

“By the time we DID, he tried to run away…”

“So we knocked him out, but like, we couldn’t take like the bus or nothing, it’d look too suspicious--”

“So Mr. Genius decided to take a cab from Queens all the way down here.”

“It wasn’t my fault there was a traffic jam!”

“And we didn’t have enough to pay for the ride, so had to walk another 3 blocks just to find a working ATM.”

“And then Chubster outside wouldn’t help us bring this guy up, seriously why do you even keep him around--”

“And you know how the elevator’s busted in this place.”

“Not to mention the fact that you know, the door was locked! Had to wait for you to respond to our knocks!”

“Aaaand here we are!”

The young man in the chair sighs, “Are you done?”

Mikey thinks it over. It takes him awhile. “I...guess?”

“Good. Get out. We’ll talk about your severance package later.”

Mikey looks like he’s about to say something, but that primal lump of nerves in his brain tells him that it’s probably best to keep quiet to ensure that he’s still breathing by next week. He looks back, and scurries out the room and into the hall.

The young man whips around to glare at Brad. “The same to you. The only reason you’re still on the payroll is because you punched our guest here. That’s good. Everything else you’ve done tonight was terrible. Leave.”

Brad’s face scrunches up, but he too makes a hasty escape, not willing to bear the brunt of his employer’s wrath now that his idiotic partner left the room.

Petruski gingerly touches the bruise that’s high on his cheekbone, and looked up at what he supposes is his mystery benefactor, sitting in a laughably ornate throne upon an elevated dais. The villain sighed. He should have been more careful when vetting his job prospects, to at the very least not have a preteen client who looks like he gets his rocks off on being able to physically look down at people. What’s even worse is the sickly sweet smell in the air, like days old cotton candy and melted toffee.

“You brought Deadpool in,” the young man accuses.

Petruski frowns. He hasn’t seen the merc in a while, and certainly not during this stint. “I don’t know what you’re talking ab--”

“You kidnapped a friend of his, and he came snooping around last night!” the man barks, spit flying, “It’s not a big fucking secret to anyone that Deadpool is a huge fucking liability, and one that I clearly do not need for this operation!” There’s a hard, glassy glint in the young man’s eyes, and Petruski stands up a little straighter, skin prickling at all the scrutiny.

“You have put your objective at a considerable risk, and I am NOT going to be the one to deal with the repercussions. While I can only pray that Deadpool is dumb enough to think you live in a dumpster, it’s just as well that if you fail, you can find yourself Permanently Moving In, do I make myself clear?”

“Beautifully. Absolutely. One-hundred-and-ten percent.” And Petruski could only hope that he could make up for his blunders.

\--

“What the hell are you doing?”

Spider-man looks up, “What?”

“This is an crime--” Wade begins, striding over to the hero, snatching up the slice of toast and crushing it in his hands, “against humanity. Birds are sky garbage, why the hell are you _feeding_ one?”

Spider-man remains unimpressed. “Never took you to have ornithophobia. What, did a bird kill your grandfather?”

“Wouldn’t know, never met either of ‘em,” Wade shrugs, taking a bite of the wadded-up toast as he sits down next to Spider-man, shooing the bird away. “Naw, I just feel for Prometheus, man. I had that happen to me once for a week. Wasn’t pretty.”

“Jesus,” Spider-man offers, but Wade doesn’t reply. Sympathy only goes so far, after all.

Wade watches Spider-man out of the corner of his eye, but the younger man didn’t do much more than blink out into the desolate streets. A few days ago, the hero would’ve snapped at him. Wade gets yelled at constantly, not just from him; it doesn’t faze him, but he can immediately feel its absence. It would be nice, he supposed, if Spider-man actually did care about his well-being, but doesn’t dare to make two plus two equal twenty-two. 

“I thought you left,” he says, after a spell.

Spider-man sighs. “I thought I would too.”

“Yo,” Wade leans back, propping himself with his arms, “pretty sure I know what’s up. You don’t need to be shy about it, just tell me if you don’t wanna go along with it.”

Spider-man whips around, “What are you talking about?” he demands.

“Uh...you ghosting out ‘cause of the guys? They get into frat mode, gotta-make-a-joke-about-everything bull from time to time. It’s no big deal to them if you just tell them to knock it off, they’re usually good about that kinda stuff.”

“Pfft,” Spider-man scoffs, though the tension seems to drain out of him, “spent a good chunk of high school getting knocked around by guys like them; if anything, they’re almost endearing, like that childhood weirdo friend that you keep running into who you kind of don’t want to hang out with anymore, but that time with the slugs and the--” he turns to find Deadpool facing away, laying on his side and propping his head underneath his hand. “Excuse me for trying to explain that I don't hate your friends."

“Look man, I really only like the sound of my own voice, it being so smooth and melodic and jazz album worthy, nothing personal,” Wade placates. “It’s hard enough to contend with myself, let alone anyone else.”

“Is that why you’re alone a lot?”

Wade doesn’t even have to think. “Yes.” Pretending to be comfortable being a lone wolf is much easier than trying to join the flock, because it sounds so much better than the truth.

Spider-man nods. “And then you just spend days inside your head, arguing with yourself, right?”

Wade waits, trying to catch the hero making fun of him, but he forces down the trepidations, reminding himself that he’s a big boy with big guns. He hmms in agreement.

Spider-man snickers to himself, “wow, look at me, penning the next Bon Iver single.”

“Bon-man,” Wade announces, throwing his hands out, “with the superpower to make anyone forget what they’re doing and sit and feel sorry for themselves, then get up a few hours later feeling really fucking dumb.”

Spider-man laughs, and Wade looks over. He doesn’t like that he likes that sound. Doesn’t like that Spider-man nudges over slightly to dig an elbow into his arm and point out Miss Marvel just over a few blocks away duking it out with some cyborg pterodactyl. Doesn't like the way Spider-man just casually invites him to help out and how readily he agrees.

Doesn’t like the way he likes all of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I used fracking to allude to hydro-fracturing, which is the the process of breaking up rocks underground using super-pressurized water, and the known side-effect of creating contaminated water.
> 
> 2\. Sadako is from The Ring. Timmy is from Lassie.
> 
> 3\. The chapter title is taken from a [tweet](https://twitter.com/longwall26/status/392072572520509440) by longwall26. He's great, [go follow him](https://twitter.com/longwall26)!
> 
> 4\. General PSA: The Ace Attorney series Ruins Lives. Strongly suggest staying away from it because it's one thing to say that lawyers ruined your life. Another entirely when you admit that it's imaginary lawyers. Goddammit. ;n;)9999


	10. Killer is Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas REALLY saved me with his expert beta skills this time...also: provides excellent emotional support during AO3 fuckery. THANKS BRO. :')
> 
> Silver the rock gets a mention for being a mediocre, but charming rock. Good job, Silver. Keep on with the rock stuff.

“There’s a hole in my noggin, dear Spidey, dear Spidey, there’s a hole in my noggin, dear Spidey, a hole.”

Peter's gaze slides over to Deadpool. They had been doing so well in helping Miss Marvel; then the cyborg pterodactyl had sank its titanium teeth into Deadpool's head, making it the third time in less than a week that the mercenary had gotten a gaping wound. Peter had slammed his foot into the dinosaur's organic eye in a rescue attempt, making it screech in pain. Then it dropped them into a convenient pile of sharp glass, which getting out of aggravated Deadpool’s head wound even further. When they had finally freed themselves, the reptile had flown away, chasing the other superheroes.

Deadpool flashes him his very best grin, all teeth and blood. “C’moonnnnn, you know you wanna join in. Or more like, you should join in or I’ll die from an aneurysm and overwhelming disappointment.”

“You can't die.”

“Thanks for reminding me, asshole.”

A sigh. “Then fix it, dear Deadpool, dear Deadpool, then fix it, dear Deadpool, fix it.”

Deadpool didn’t make an attempt to hide his gleeful snicker as he belted out the next verse: “With what shall I fix it, dear Spidey, dear Spidey, with what shall I fix it, dear Spidey, with what?”

Peter thought it over. “I...don’t know?” He finally decides on.

Deadpool huffs. “2 out of 10 for creativity.”

Peter remains unapologetic, shrugging flippantly. “I’ve had little to no experience in dealing with brain injuries, sorry to say. The most I can do is lug you around.”

Deadpool doesn’t miss the chance to pirouette his way into Peter’s raised arms, wiggling around to get comfortable. “Careful, I’m fragile and weak, it’d be in your best interest to hold me close to your chest so I don’t get even more hurt.”

Peter highly doubts that. “You do know that ‘lugging you around’ can also mean just wrapping a web strand to your leg and dragging you behind me?”

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” Deadpool dares.

Peter lightly touches his middle and ring fingers to his palm, aiming straight at Deadpool's face.

“Ok, ok, fine!” The mercenary relents, shielding his face, “A compromise: you give me a piggy-back ride, and I’ll shut up until we get back to the apartment.”

Peter lowers his arm. “Really?”

“Pinky toe swear!”

The hero grimaces, “I'm not going to touch your foot.”

Deadpool rolls his eyes, feeling mildly insulted. Even so, a deal was a deal and he wasn’t going to to look a gift horse in the mouth. That was something for veterinarians to do. “Fine, yes, I swear. And stuff.”

“I reserve the right to web your entire head if you make a peep.”

“I don't even know how to make marshmallows in the first place,” Deadpool shrugs, and takes a running leap up to anchor his arms around Peter's neck.

Peter grits his teeth, feeling as though he’d been slammed into by a tiny freight train. “If you can still run, I'd say you're in pretty good condition.” He wheezes.

“Aw thanks, Spides, that's so nice of you to say,” Deadpool sighs. “Now, MUSH!”

“Don’t kick, don’t ki-- OW!” Pete howls, as the other man’s ankles stab into his ribs. “No kicking either!”

“I wouldn’t have to kick if you simply just went faster--”

“WEB. HEAD. I-- YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.”

“But you’re the boss,” Deadpool concedes quickly, settling down before Peter has a chance to make his threat into a reality.

\--

And true to his word, Deadpool stays quiet… right until they set foot into the building’s lobby.

"So like, there's this one thing I don't get about Sailor Moon," Deadpool mutters angrily. "You know their transformation sequence? Why does it start off with them getting their nails painted? It eventually gets covered by their gloves."

Peter grinds his teeth. He should have known a completely silent Deadpool was too good to be true. Stupid loophole. "Why do ribbons turn into clothing and boots? You're really asking the wrong person here."

"That's _magic_ ,” Deadpool scoffs, as if it was absolutely obvious. “What I don't get is why they waste five seconds on something that you won't be able to see at the end. They could freaking save like.... Well, if you estimate an average of three to four transformations an episode, times by the number of eps in a season… I’m basically wasting my life watching something that never shows up at all, unless they change their costume to include fingerless gloves.”

“You of all people, complaining about life wasting? When you're essentially immortal? That’s rich. You want to explain why you were so insistent on getting Miss Marvel’s number if you’re so indignant against time-wasting?”

Deadpool chooses to ignore him; he's heard the spiel a thousand times over anyways. “I just don't see why they don't THINK about these things before implementing them in the show, they're just wasting both their time and our-- GNNK!”

Peter cuts Deadpool off, raising his arms to slam the injured mercenary's head against the soffit of the stairs. The mercenary swayed, then collapsed against the hero's shoulder quietly.

"Paaaaybaaaaack~" Peter singsonged lightly, a smile on his face as he began walking in relative silence once more. A few more minutes and flights of stairs brings them to Wade’s front door, and Peter can hear light strains of piano music coming from the interior of the apartment. Pete has the slight feeling that he should know the name of the song, but he can't quite put his finger on it. He leans against the doorbell with a shoulder, which jostles Deadpool into half-awakeness as his head knocks against the wall. “No, wait, I haven't got enough brain gel yet,” he slurs incoherently.

The door cracks open, before opening fully. “Took you awhile to get back,” Rigo notes, scrutinizing the two’s battered visages. “where'd you two go off to? A fancy hotel to off some womanizing megalomaniac?”

"Hey Deep, your really fun and cool friend is here," Gus grumbles, pointing across the room. Peter turns his head to find a woman at Deadpool's kitchen counter, squinting at the laptop in front of her and clacking away at the keys.

Deadpool attempts to wave, which amounts to a little more than a shaky hand twitch. "Hey, Tatia--Irene. Hi. Hello. Guten Taaaag. Bit of….bit of... brain loopiness on my part. How has the things in your life been doing for you? Gotten over Cable yet? Ok, great, now you’re here to confess to me, ok, good, great, good."

The woman slams her laptop shut, pushing up her glasses in a way that strongly reminds Peter of his landlord when he's late with the rent. "Deadpool. If you insist on me helping you, the least you can do is open up a line of communication. I've spent two days trying to look for your little hideout,” she berates exasperatedly; Peter gets the feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation.

"Aw, Reeny, I didn't think you car--"

"Can it, we don't have much time for pleasantries as it is." She finally takes full notice of Deadpool's state and leans back, lips curving into a frown.

"What happened?" Irene asked.

"Molehill. That kind of turned out to be a mountain." Deadpool rasps, and clings onto Peter, though unnecessarily leaning his whole body onto the shorter man. Peter maneuvers Deadpool into a chair, but the mercenary struggles against it, trying to cling back on to Peter. “Nooooo...I'm not satisfied with my care yetttttt,” he whines.

"And I see you've found a human crutch to hobble around on," Irene notes.

"He's much more than that.” Deadpool dramatically flung his hand out, as if he was giving a grand speech. “He's the wind at my back and the sword by my side."

"Deadpool." Peter warns as he finds a seat across the room from the man, sorely hoping he didn’t have to walk all the way back to administer a beating.

The merc ignores him. "And together we’ll build a peaceful world, just him and m—" (1)

"DEADPOOL." The hero gets up, but Gus sticks a hand out, pushing him back into his chair.

Irene turns towards Rigo. “This happens often?”

“You find it weird too, huh?”

“You have no right to judge us!” Deadpool wails, but Irene simply ignores him, opening her laptop back up to scroll through her notes again.

“I dug a little deeper, and it appears that Bob's little mishap is, as you predicted, tied up in something bigger. The police raided what they thought was a meth lab in Brooklyn, and found a makeshift R+D center for the chemical weapons that've been popping up in NYC instead. They did some tests, and found traces of the same corrosive stuff you ran into in that bakery at the scene as well.”

Deadpool couldn’t keep the overwhelming enthusiasm out of his voice. "Oh _goody_." 

Peter couldn’t blame him for being less than thrilled, given the last time the man was in contact with the flesh-eating liquid.

Irene folds her arms, leaning back. "Bad thing is, that they also found shipment packages. Files with addresses and inventory and customer names. Deadpool, this stuff was just about to be released into the wild. You’ve got to go to the top and cut off the whole operation before it gets out of NYC."

"Liiiiiiiiiike a quarantine?"

The back of Peter’s neck prickles, and he slides down his chair slightly, looking away from Deadpool.

"Quite." Irene yawns, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes.

Peter crosses his arms, feeling off-kilter. He’s here for a reason - to keep Deadpool contained. He’s only been around Deadpool for a short while and already he had almost forgotten what he was being paid to do. It was unsettling just how easy it was to forget. He’s got to get his head back in the game.

The sound of clinking glass slightly pulls him out of his stupor, and he looks over to the kitchen, finding Deadpool with a frilly pink apron on and a bunch of glass bottles in front of him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Deadpool blinks, looking down. “Well, I wanted to make some molotovs, and I need to get these bottles empty to do that. Y’want a vodka cocktail?”

“I do, Black Russian.” Rigo chimes in, raising his hand.

“Vodka Martini, please.” Irene follows up.

“Screwdriver, thanks bruh.” Gus finishes up with a wave.

Peter declines on the ordering, and stands up, speaking carefully. “We don’t _need_ mollies for this, we’re just going to take this one thing at a time. No need to rush into anything aggressive.” He's gotten this far in trying to minimize damage with Deadpool, he can't let up just yet.

Deadpool sets down a glass tumbler in favor of placing a hand on his hip as he glares at Peter, pointing the bar spoon his way. “That little shit has face-melting, flammable, exploding gel-slash-water on hand, Spides, unless YOU wanna shield ME from it, I’d suggest we do all that we can to mitigate the threat before our collective faces melt off.”

“Bringing explosives to an explosion fight, sounds brilliant,” Peter scoffs. “We don’t have to treat everything like- like it’s Hotline Miami or Zero Dark Thirty.”

“And we can’t just assume everyone has world peace and brotherly love on their minds either. Got burnt--literally-- once already by that lying scumbag kid, I’ve learned my lesson about the whole thing.” Deadpool bites back, grabbing more bottles and orange juice from the fridge. He wrenches the cap off the orange juice and haphazardly pours it into the glass in front of him.

“Fine, but you’re not bringing explosives. Or anything that will kill us.”

Deadpool gapes at him, before slamming each of the drinks on the side of the table. The room goes deadly silent.

“Fine.”

And with that, he sweeps into his bedroom, making sure to slam the door extra loudly.

“Typical,” Irene murmurs, already very used to Deadpoolian tantrums. “He’d better come back, I’ll need another drink after I finish this one.”

“You know he’s probably just going to bring like a wooden spoon and manage to choke someone to death with it,” Gus sighs, getting up to pluck his drink off the table.

“At least a wooden spoon isn’t seen as a direct threat.” Peter argues.

Gus lets out a barking laugh before downing his screwdriver in one go. “Ohhhhhhh it does when it’s in ‘Pool’s hands, _trust me_.”

\--

There’s no door guard waiting for them when they pulled up on Laundry Ave. They take the elevator up to Riley’s office, but it simply had a ‘be back soon!’ sign hung on the doorknob.

They head back down the hallway and climb into the elevator again, but instead of going down, Deadpool pushes the button for the top floor. The Zapatas and Peter all turn to give him an odd look.

“Villains enjoy high places. It allows them a good view of all the stuff and people they can destroy in their immediate area,” he explains. “Like me and my heart.”

“So do the Avengers.” Peter adds in. “Er, not that the destroying part. More like the protecting and…”

Deadpool cuts in. “There’d better be some sort of showdown, or at least some mooks up there. What the hell am I going to do with this nunchuck-gun?”

“I'm surprised that you left the house with that thing,” Peter says.

“Hey! You’re the one to tell me, ‘oooh, don’t bring any lethal weapons, you big dumbdumb!’” Wade mocks, pitching his voice up into a shrill squeak. “So I didn’t! God, nothing makes you happy, does it.” Deadpool snaps. 

“Nope.” Peter loftily shrugs.

Deadpool rolls his eyes, scoffing. “And besides, it was custom-made. Which means it's way more expensive than it should have been, retrospectively. If I'm not gonna use it now, when am I ever going to?”

Gus rips the gun out of Deadpool’s hands, turning it in his hands to inspect it. “Why didn't you just make yourself a gun-nunchuck? More economical and utilitarian. You just put two guns on a metal chain and boom, both a long range and short range weapon.”

Deadpool scoffs, “That’s a stupid idea. Like trying to compare a baklava and a balaclava in terms of tastiness just because they sound the same. Do I look like Bayonetta to you? Actually, that'd be cool, I love her outfits.”

“It’s at least better than the time you chopped your arm off just to have a Mondo Zappa-esque cyborg arm attached on.”

“The arm kept growing back,” Wade mourned sadly, reminiscing wistfully about the portable laser cannon.

Peter shuts his eyes and presses his fingers to his temple, feeling a little sick to his stomach at Deadpool’s admission.

The elevator finally dings, and they all enter a ornately decorated chamberoom, with the walls almost completely decorated with gold accents from top to bottom.

Wade lets out a low whistle. “Shoot, I should have brought a camera, this is exactly the kind of aesthetic I’ve been aiming for in my Animal Crossing house.”

Peter leans in, “Just… your AC house? Not like… you know. Your actual house?”

“Look, I know what you want, and I’ll give you my Dream Town address later.”

Peter holds up a hand. “Pass. And it's just neo-Rococo. The game does have a Rococo furniture set, if you got the bells for it.”

Deadpool spins to face him, beyond aghast. “Oh HELL no, I can't believe you'd even BRING THAT UP. My god, that set is hideous. Jesus holy christ, I thought my eyes were gonna burn right out of their sockets.”

“Like that time when you tried to barbecue a whole cow by dousing it with lighter fluid and you got too close to the grill?” Gus reminds him.

“Yeah. But waaaaay worse.”

A door opens to their left, and they all turn to find two men, one with a box in his hands walking in, but not noticing the gang as the box-less man is rapidly detailing out instructions to his partner.

“Look, y’gotta lay low for a couple of days. Got a cousin down in Jersey that’ll take you in, I wrote the address down on your arm, don’t fucking wash it until you get there. Tell ‘er ‘Bronton’ sent you.” 

“But that ain’t your name, Brad.”

The man has both of his hands up, looking as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle the other or himself. “I know that, but--”

Gus clears his throat loudly.

They both stop like deer caught in headlights. Peter finds their voices rather… familiar, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Move over, asshole,” Deadpool grunts, shoving Peter out of the way as he lines up his shot with his tongue between his teeth, and fires.

Miraculously, the flying nunchuk knocks both men out cold. Deadpool crows out a victory whoop before running across the room and picking up the now-bloodied nunchuk, reloading it back into the gun.

Peter can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Wait, wait, wait, lemme get this straight… you only brought ONE?”

“It only fits one!” Deadpool yells defensively, jogging back to rejoin the group.

“And you didn’t think to bring more?!”

“Where would I put them? I’m not fucking Doraemon here.”

Pete splutters, beyond bewildered. “Then what’s the point of having _so many pouches_?”

“Do any of these look like they can fit a nunchuk to you?” Deadpool gestures dramatically at his waist.

“You could always fit some through the belt to hold them,” Rigo suggests.

Deadpool turns to Rigo, betrayal written all over his face. “Exactly whose side are you on, anyways?”

“He’s right, you do seem to have room for a good six or seven of them.”

“Et tu, Gustus?”

Before Peter can wrangle the topic back on hand, the door on the other side of the room bangs open. They all look up, the scent of cotton candy immediately washing over them.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Pool…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) [Explanation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFQhMBIizWQ&feature=youtu.be&t=19s). Warnings for fire emblem awakening spoilers and second hand embarrassment.
> 
> (2) Bayonetta has gun heels!
> 
> (3) [Made a fic-mix to go along with the story](https://soundcloud.com/teii/sets/q-tine). Kinda. It's more like 'stuff I kept repeating over and over in the background'.
> 
> (4) [This](http://youtu.be/1_WeBcBeuWU) is DP's preferred 'aesthetic'. ;) Warnings for flashing lights/glitch.
> 
> Hi. This chapter took particularly long. 2014 wasn't a very kind year to me, and it took me so, so many tries to finally roll up my sleeves and finish the chapter. I see this particular piece as a happy space for me, something that I can have fun writing silly jokes and goof around with, and I couldn't come back to it in my mental state last year. I'm so, so grateful that despite all the radio silence, you guys still were so patient and kind to me at a time when I couldn't do the same for myself.
> 
> Honestly, truly, and sincerely: thank you. Q means a lot to me, and I'm so happy to continue sharing it with you all. :)


	11. Blight

Peter wrinkles his nose, watching as a guy not that much younger than him stroll in, a hand on his hip. Doesn’t cut much of a menacing figure to justify such a dramatic entrance.

“So, the prodigal son has returned.”

Deadpool rolls his eyes. “That line only works if you gave me anything in the first place, and if you were my dad.”

The young man maintains the smooth smile, extending a hand to the side. “Please, sit. I apologize for not being in the office, even on a Tuesday morning.” He sits on a chaise longue as a maid scurried from behind him to place a tray of decadent sweets on the marble end table. He plucks a piece of artisanal chocolate with his fingers at random and pops it into his mouth in one bite.

He gestures grandly towards the spread, the very image of the perfect host. “Can I offer you gentlemen some in-house chocolate? Macaroons? Canelés? Analiese can whip up a Raspberry Dacquoise now if you have the time.“

“Would if we could, but I think you know as well I as do that we have pressing matters to discuss--”

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” Gus interrupts, swooping in to snag a treacle tart and shoving the confection into his mouth.

“Jesus on a skateboard, how are we gonna pull off an air of professionalism if you keep horfing everything in front of you?” Deadpool groans.

“Well, I’m _sorry_ , the only thing I had all day was breakfast, I need enough protein in my diet to properly bulk up.” Gus garbled, crumbs spraying out.

“Dude, it’s 10 in the morning. We had breakfast an hour ago, if you bulked up anymore people are literally going to mistake you for a brick wall, and I don’t recall that chocolate has any sizable amount of protein in it.”

“Yeah, bruh, I mean, no offense, but like you work out an’ all, but you’re really underminin’ your figure with all that junk you eat day in, day out.”

“Hey, table up a meal plan later,” Pete cuts in, looking pointedly at the waiting billionaire, who has already slipped off his shoes to tuck his legs up on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee in his hands with a serene smile on his face, with the maid standingly rigidly behind him.

“Oh, no, no, please don’t mind me,” he dismisses with a wave of a hand. Pete narrows his eyes at the girl, noticing something...off about her as she clutches the serving tray tightly to her chest. She looks up, and locks eyes with him, the act sending goosebumps down his spine as he takes a cautionary step back.

Grand doesn’t miss the action, and he slides an amused grin at Pete. “You’ll have to forgive Analiese’s appearance. Mother gifted me her when she left me and father for a man with much, much more money than us. Top of the line android-- or was. Mother said she’d make a fine substitute. Turns out she was right, even with Analiese’s primary protocol is making sweets.” 

Riley frowns at the two prone ex-lackeys crumpled on the floor, and turns his nose up. “Analiese, get rid of that mess.” The android nods once, before hoisting the two grown men up over both her shoulders, carrying them out of the room with ease.

“So that’s where he got all that frosting…” Gus mutters to his brother, who nods grimly in return.

Deadpool has his arms crossed, impatiently waiting for a chance to speak, “I’d like to mind you though, Grand,” he clips briskly, “or more specifically, why you flipped me over and ran me through a shredder with bad intel. I thought we had a deal. An understanding. A _connection_.”

“Rest assured, it was not my intention for you to run amok, but my-- ah-- business ventures have taken a turn for the worse.” A bitter chuckle. “Or to be more specific, the family business. Lots of upheaval-- people getting let go left and right.” The young man shrugs, wiping the rim of his coffee cup. 

“‘A turn for the worse’ is kind of putting it lightly, isn’t it?” Pete butts in, feeling more and more rankled by the young man. “Not the biggest fan of organized crime, but at the very least you have the obligation to protect the businesses and their customers.”

A loud, exaggerated sigh. “Yes, it’s….a shame that some of the establishments have been...vandalised. Then again, I _am_ the only one here. Father’s never been good with running anything-- unless it’s running away. Gets nervous easily, cuts his losses and gets out. We used to run neighborhoods from Boston all the way down to DC back in my grandmother’s day, and now it’s just little old New York in this little old borough runned by little old me. You’ll have to excuse me for what a terrible job I must be doing, trying to take over the mantle in his absence.”

Rigo shakes his head. “Uhh you do know this is Manhattan, right? Like you can’t even get away with a studio without selling an arm and a leg--”

“Nevertheless,” Riley continues, ignoring Rigo, “in between my dad threatening to leave me out of the will and watching all of our assets burning to the ground, I am cognizant enough of the situation to realize what a...hassle this whole thing might be for you.”

Deadpool cracks his neck, glaring down at Grand. “You’re distractingly cute, which is the only thing that’s stopping me from blowing a hole into your head-- that and Mr. No-Fun-Times over there told me I couldn’t bring a gun.”

Riley flashes him a smile. “I’m flattered. I suppose.”

The merc scoffs. 

“Believe me, this isn’t looking good for the family brand at all. Manhattan’s our last bastion, and doesn’t look like it’s going to last….it’s only common sense to start branching out to different sectors.”

“Guessing not to more catering supplies, huh.”

“You could...say that.” Grand stands up. “To be honest, I had half a mind to get rid of you lot, but I need more than luck to start a brand new business.” He glances over at Pete. “Well, it’s something that you might not find interesting, my apologies. If you’d like to leave….”

Spider-man narrows his eyes at the statement. “It seems like all the more reason I should stay.”

Riley shrugs. “Well, I was interested in asking how much you boys would be willing to take out Mr. No-Fun-Times over there for me.”

Silence. 

Pete tenses, almost afraid to look at the three mercenaries. They...they wouldn’t. Would they? He’s still not willing to put it over them to make a quick buck, fleeting camaraderie be damned.

He of all people should know.

“Uhh, Reeg, do we gotta Cousin Vinny in our family?”

“There’s Aunt Rosa, but I think she does like-- patents. I don’t know if anyone is going to protect us from New York if we take out their darling spider son.”

“We don’t do this for cheap, Kylie,” Deadpool drawls, surging forward and clamping a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “seeing that you’re losing money left and right, and you haven’t been exactly good on the promises front, I’m having a hard time seeing you fork out the cash afterwards. Acting out, huh? Mom’s gone, Dad all but left you too. So you gotta get an entire city’s attention to fill the void. Nothing less for le petit prince. What is this, daddy issues?”

"It's not _daddy issues_ , it's--"

Gus cuts in, "Yeah, man, look, we feel you, our pops ran out on us too, but like, c'mon man, we ain't letting New York get blown to bits 'cause of that."

“Or murdering dudes via confectionary.”

"You should really find someone to talk this out with."

“Or you can do what I do when it comes to dad problems-- pay someone who looks and sounds like your dad and pay him to apologize to you.” Deadpool suggests.

“Does that help?” Gus cautiously asks.

“No. I broke down crying before he even said anything, but yelling at him to get out felt pretty good.”

“Look,” Riley grinds out, rapidly losing his patience as he tries to pull out of Deadpool’s grip, “I’m making an offer, and I’d like to know if any of you are going to take me up on it.”

Deadpool tilts Riley’s head up with a single index finger, “oh, did we upset Your Majesty? Look sweet _tart_ , call me in a few years, we could maybe set up a dinner date, y’know when all this rage and obviously teen hormones have subsid--”

BLAM.

Peter barely sides-step the bullet exiting out of Deadpool’s head in time, staring in shock as the mercenary slumps into Grand’s arms. The young man promptly pushes the mercenary off, leaving him crumpled on the floor, as the android maid strides next to Grand, handing him the pistol she just fired.

“Thank you, Analiese,” he murmurs as he takes the gun from her, before sending another bullet into Deadpool’s head at point-blank range.

Pete barely takes a step before he finds Grand’s gun pointed straight at his face. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he snarls.

Gus and Rigo pull out guns of their own, but finds themselves on a standoff with Analiese who produces two more 9 mms from her dress pockets, her vacant, black eyes pinning them in place.

“That’s better,” Grand sighs, “You guys have any androids? Good investment. No need for vacation days, unwavering loyalty, can’t actually try them in court for murder...” 

“Isn’t her freakin’ ‘primary protocol’ makin’ desserts?” Rigo yells.

“Oh, the whole gunslinger thing is just an add-on, thought she enough room in her hardware for one more skill,” he airly explains, as he gives Deadpool’s corpse a disgusted look. “Unfortunately--”

BLAM

“we haven’t had the chance to fully produce--”

BLAM

“anything to counter someone with Mr. Pool’s...condition.”

BLAM BLAM BLAM

“What do you mean...by produce…” Peter slowly trails, dreading the answer.

“Just some prototypes. Some you may even be familiar with already.”

Pete frowns. “So you’re telling me...”

Riley shrugs. “Tried going the viral route. That’s the cool thing to do nowadays, right? That’s what the marketing guys tell me, anyways.”

Pete feels sick. “So you purposefully blew up your own establishments to cause a shit show?”

“That, and testing. Not to mention they were all the ones that kept dodging payment. Had to keep them in line somehow. Three birds in one stone.” Riley adds cheerfully, pleased at the efficiency. “Anyways, the closest we have at the moment is this little darling-- Analiese, do you, oh good--” He beams as the robot pulls out a small grenade with a third arm seemingly coming out of her back. “He’s going to revive like some cockroach, but this should slow him down a bit, and I suppose for you gentlemen, quite a lot.”

The gun in his hands is finally out of bullets, as it makes empty clicking noises and he tosses it onto the floor with a wet slap, having landed in Deadpool’s widening pool of blood.

“Congratulations gentlemen, you get the honor of helping me with further testing of our latest product line.”

“You can’t poison all of New York with that, can you?” Pete takes a step back, 

“I suppose I couldn’t,” Riley concedes, “but at the very least, I could start with you three.”

“Fuck, fuck FUCK formation epsilon, go!” Rigo yells, making a move, and dodges the maid’s fired bullets as Gus follows closely behind,

“What? Epsilon? Wait, what’s thaaAAERRRK--”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his question before Gus and Rigo charges right for him, picking him up and smashing their way out of the bay window. 

Pete watches through the gap of Gus’ arm and Rigo’s chest as the room is enveloped in a dark green plume of smoke, the stringent smell of acid stinging his nostrils. It’s not until he feels the bracing winter wind blowing past his exposed neck and the remaining mercenaries scream as they enter freefall that he grunts, worming a hand out from under their crushing grip to shoot out a string of web to the building across the street, out of reach from the green gas now wafting in the air.

“Couldn’t, y’know, give a guy a heads up before you tackle him out of a twenty story building, huh?” He wheezes, swaying with the two Luchadors hanging off of him.

“Would if we could, Spidester, but we kind of got the notice about a lunatic tryna smoke us out with acidified smoke around the same time you did.” Rigo gasps, filling his lungs back up with oxygen.

“You guys seriously made a plan surrounding me saving your asses?”

“Uh, one, we saved your immobile ass first, so actually you owe us, and two, you didn’t have a plan either did you?”

“I had plans! They...didn’t include anything this dire,” Pete admitted, “but this was way too risky, what would happen if I wasn’t available as your human parachute?”

“Oh, we had a plan for that too, it was formation delta: jump out of the window anyway.” Gus explains, as he tries to get a good grip around Pete’s neck.

“As much as I’m grateful for you guys not killing me, I’m going to have to ask you not to cling onto me like distressed lampreys.”

“You ever seen a flying luchador? No, right? Well there’s a good reason, ‘cause really, we do our best work on the ground and not at a height where we could snap our necks!”

Pete sighs, before lowering them all onto the rooftop of a shorter building next door. He eyes the window where they crashed out of, smoke plumes still billowing out. A hand on his shoulder shakes him out of his concentration.

“Don’t do it, ain’t worth it.”

“We have to go back for Deadpool! Right? Right…?” He trails off, noticing both of the bloodied men shaking their heads.

“At worst, he’s going to melt into a puddle and it’ll take him longer than usual to reconstitute into something even uglier than before. If you wanna share the same fate, by all means, you can go back for him yourself. And like, we keep telling him that he can’t keep hitting on rich people-- they’re way out of his league. Everyone is technically out of his league, but like-- rich people especially”

“So what now, oh brilliant plann-.” Pete stops the annoyed tirade he was building up to, noticing a satellite dish swing slowly towards at them. “Uh, guys, that doesn’t usually happen does it?”

“I’m guessing not that either,” Gus remarks, pointing at a stone gargoyle that seemingly has moved its head 60 degrees to the left to pierce them with a nasty glower. The smell of acid is back in the air, and Pete grimaces, trying not to fidget. “Grand did say he has property all over the place, right? Please let me not be right for once.”

“Ok, plan A: swim out of Manhattan, plan B: if we kill Spidey, maybe that twerp will stop gunning for us…”

“I’m right here!”

“I know, I’m adding you into the brainstorming session, if you don’t like the odds, then add some brilliant plan of your own--”

“Uh, guys, you might wanna, oh, I dunno check this out…”

Rigo and Pete crane their necks over to where Gus was pointing, and Pete’s blood freezes in his veins.

New York.

Not a street, not a block, New York.

 _New York was burning_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://teii.tumblr.com)


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